There is bright, white light. It falls in beams through softly misted air, breaking through columns that are like pearl and silver and shiny and marble and not.
It's like a cathedral, the columns soaring so high I can't see where they go or what they're holding up. I think there may be clouds before there is a roof.
The columns look like petrified stalks. My line of sight follows them down to the floor; it's too bright to look up for long.
The floor is stone. I think. It's definitely not the mud and soil of the jungle floor but... What's that pattern? Is that... Is that a skull shape?
"Hello, little one," a voice rumbles, so low and loud it vibrates through my bones like heavy thunder.
They don't sound like Morgan Freeman. I don't think this is Heaven.
"I've been expecting you," the rumble says.
I look around but I can't see where it comes from. All I can see is columns and clouds and beams of light. Except now that I look, I can see someone has tried their hand at marble-effect and made a pattern that looks suspiciously like polished bones. There's an awful lot of not-quite face shapes in the fake stone.
"Where's my guide?" I ask.
"You no longer need a guide," says the rumble. "You are now in Sanctuary."
What's that supposed to be? I thought it was something to do with medieval churches.
"Sanctuary?" I ask.
"Did you not need a place of respite from persecution?" the rumble asks.
I hear rustling, as if someone is leafing through papers.
"Let me just check my notes," says the rumble.
"Where am I?" I ask.
The rumble clears its throat. At least I assume that's what the small floor-jump and accompanying crack sound is supposed to be. "Welcome to Sanctuary, home of the Lady Empanda, Goddess of Asylum."
I echo, "Asylum." I have no idea what that has to do with me. I'm not some pathetic immigrant desperate to taste the easy life of... wherever this is. I'd rather go home.
"Are you hungry?" asks the rumble. "We have some loaves of bread around here somewhere..."
"Who am I talking to?" I ask. Because they're useless and I have every intention of talking to their manager or finding some other way of making sure they get theirs.
"Erm," says the rumble.
For the first time, there is movement of in the air. Backwards and forwards in a gentle breeze and a sound like gentle waves lapping on a shore I can't see.
"I don't think you're supposed to be here," says the rumble.
The building's heavy breathing continues.