Kurloz tumbled down, down, down until he landed in the corner of a low ceilinged, smokey room. The wallpaper was garish and the lights were dim - mostly a few candles. There were bottles of things everywhere, and a mattress in one corner that looked less than clean. Sitting on the mattress was a long-limbed young man, his hair tied sloppily back, big bushy sideburns framing his face, though the rest of him looked like he could use a shave, too. Dark circles under his blue-purple eyes marked his lack of sleep, and his fingers were ink stained, his fingernails long and dirty. At this age, there was more resemblance between father and son - Rhys was without the lines that later marked his face with such character later on - but his state of disarray obscured that somewhat.

He was bent over a mirror that he was speaking rapid Welsh into, something soft and imploring, and one hand gestured as he spoke, though the person on the other side of the magic mirror wouldn't have been able to see the gestures. His occasional pauses were punctuated with a woman's voice coming from the mirror, though from the angle Kurloz was at, he wouldn't be able to see her face. She was speaking Welsh, as well, and her tone was high and musical, and soothing, as though she were trying to calm Rhys down.