"I suppose I can get a little crazy when I'm drunk," Eliot opines, blowing a cloud if smoke out into the damp air. It's immediately whipped away by the wind. "And madness in old age is generally considered derigeur among a certain set. But hearing voices outside of the setting of having ingested massive quantities of drugs? No, that's new to me."

He pauses, then, glancing over at Jean speculatively.

"Other worlds ... Well, that's not entirely novel. Uncommon, absolutely, but not completely unheard of. What about you, my sloe eyed acquaintance?"