[A woman steps onto the Plane, barefoot and dressed oddly--a gown that was fine once, until loose threads and jewels were absently picked out of the stitching and cobwebs and dust coated the fabric. The sleeves are spotted with ink and soot and stranger stains. The woman wearing the dress is pale, and her hair is black and unruly, escaping a gold clasp she's pinned it up with. She stands, still and motionless, looking at the stars around and below and above, colorless eyes wide in a pale face. She turns, slowly, and looks up at the stars.]

Constellations and riddles falling into my lap, and now stars in my parlor. [A deep breath and she nibbles on her thumb, eyes narrowing.] I didn't enter a little black house. And I see no tinkers. So which story have I wandered out of time into?

[Her eyes narrow, intent, thoughtful, and she hikes her skirts up, strides towards the kiosk and takes up the brochure, movements abrupt and brusque. She picks at a thread as she reads, then creases the paper into shapes when she finishes, looking again at the stars around her. Not alarmed or confused, but interested, murmuring to herself.]

How strange...

Walking out of a story of stars into a field of stars. One story after another, and in layers together. Connect them to make shapes and eventually make sense of the whole.

How strange.