Snippet #2773734

Max would pause on a door through which the rest had gone, emerging a fair distance away, and look back at Basalah. "Well, you're looking more like something we'd normally kill on sight," he said. "Those tentacles are always a dead giveaway for demons. No worries about that, though. Also, you're talkin' without that staticky stuff from that voicebox. Bet the Threshold broke it, 'ey?" Giving Basalah a grin, Max would walk through the door and join the rest of the Chosen Few, who were currently a long way away; if one didn't want to travel the whole mile distance from one end of the vessel to another, the doors served as excellent shortcuts, provided that you remember where each door lead.
Eventually, they would reach the Cafetorium, where the window which occupied almost all of the outside wall provided a view of the Edge. As was mentioned before, the Edge seems to hold much less activity than the Outer Centre, instead providing a haunting picture of a cosmos leaning closer to cold, logical Reality than the spontaneously vibrant Fantasy that the crew lived on. Here, it was uncertain that anything lived in these gulfs, save the currently thin tendrils of a psychopathic near-omnipotent being that desires nothing but the extinction of Fantasy.
Seemingly unaware of all this existential terror, Max and the others would wander to the Cornucopia machine, where they fabricated various drinks before sitting down on one of the long tables, their backs to the window-wall. "It'll be a while before we reach land," said Fancy amiably. "Might as well stretch our legs and kick back for a bit, get to know each other a bit more."
"Yeh," said Adam, cradling a glass of milk, a textbook beverage for the calcium-based undead.
"Feel free to get a drink or something from the thingy," said Fancy. "If it does what John says it does, it should give you any drink you want."