THE GREAT, AMAZING BARTIMAEUS

The esteemed John Mandrake was not looking much like his usual self right now. Gone was the perfectly coiffed hair, the perfectly ironed and starched suit and the shiny shoes. In his place was a man recognisable as Mandrake but he was covered in soot, scrapes and rather torn clothing.

Still, he presented a rather striking figure, fighting with a power that seemed unreal against the fiery hell raining down upon them all. The effect was rather spoiled when he seemed to try to turn both left and right at the same time to avoid a fiery missile and instead fell over. At least the fireball missed him?

"Hey, I'm in charge of direction, not you." He yelled at no one in the vicinity. Had he finally snapped?

And strangely enough, he responds himself - his words to no one.

"You weren't moving fast enough!" John speaks again, seemingly arguing with himself. Maybe this event really had finally made him snap like many thought he would. The workload had taken it's toll, perhaps?

[Ever since his rather tense conversation with Nathaniel, Bartimaeus has kept himself to himself and not been seen. He has still been suffering the Mournful Orb night after night, but he no longer believes that Whitwell laid her bony hands on the Ring of Solomon. He realized quite quickly that it was all fake, but the atmosphere between himself and Nathaniel is far more able to hurt Bartimaeus than any illusion can.

The wolf is curled up on the bed that he usually never uses, but the wolf is giving off a disconsolate air and has no idea the PCD on the shelf has switched itself on.]