Ariadne was a transformed world, quite literally, and Andrew Cherenkov shuddered at the brown ocean that lapped at his feet.
The water felt like blood and oil, and the shore felt spongy. The scent of brine in the air was too strong. He'd had a hand in making a monster of this planet.
Clusters of small yellow Gnosis flitted over the waves nearby, their wings making a sound like join us, join us. Cherenkov drew away.
This wasn't his place anymore. This wasn't his world. If he had to fade away it wouldn't be here.
This Fairyland wasn't for him.