-
stronger before my brain begins to evaporate."

-
own ears.

He turned to the Doctor, his eyes wide with a manic mix of terror and awe. "This is a trick," he accused, pointing a shaky finger. "Mirrors, or... or hypnotism! That's it!" He gestured wildly at the cavernous space. "Right. Forget the brandy. Point me to something much, much
-

- accept the drink if it didn't do anything funny to his insides.

No - scrap that. A drink is a drink. He NEEDED one, despite the risk.

-
about to rip out of his chest.

"Wait a moment. Did you say... 'several'?" The words were spoken with a newfound reverence. "And 'very good years'? We are talking about grape-based vintages, aren't we? Not... not fermented alien lichen from 30 B.C. or some such?" Not that he cared TOO much. He'd -

—
"I think I need that brandy now more than ever. You wouldn't happen to have a cellar in that box of yours, would you?"

—
hand through his already dishevelled hair. "Right. So, to summarise: you appear in a disappearing box, you know of places that don't exist, and you're a... time-traveller or explorer of sorts? This is all making a DREADFUL amount of sense," he said, his voice spiked with sarcasm.
—

—
heavens. Is that... is that like being a duke? Does it come with a castle? Or do you just have a rather fantastic collection of pocket watches?"

The mention of 'last of them' seemed to momentarily sober him. "The last one? Oh. Well. My commiserations, I suppose."

He shook his head, running a
—

—
"Smith... a good, solid name. Not... not secretly short for Smithonius of the Glimmering Nebula, is it? No green skin under there? No extra appendages tucked away?" He gestured vaguely at the Doctor's coat. "Because if there are, I'd rather know now, if it's all the same to you."

—
proceeds to vanish! Poof! Into thin air! 'Okay' is not a word I would use to describe my current state. 'Baffled', 'terrified', and 'in dire need of a stiff brandy', perhaps!"

He eyed the man, "Smith," up and down. He did look terribly human. Was that a British accent?

—

—
fascination screamed a certain gullibility. He had her fooled.

"You know, if you’d like, I could show you the scar."
Eventually, she would excuse herself to use the bathroom, leaving Jonathan there on his own, clasping his hands. Thinking to himself, 'god, I am great!'

—
That brought my personal tally to sixty-six mummified fiends, all dispatched by yours truly. Single-handedly, mind you. My sister Evelyn says I exaggerate, but she’s never had to face a mummy with nothing but a rusty sabre and a hangover."

The look of astonishment on her face and mumbling of —

—
his means.

This woman was all ears.
"He was Seven feet tall, eyes like burning coals, and a halberd the size of a camel. I lopped off his head, clean as you like! You should have seen it. One swipe and off it went, rolling down the temple steps like a particularly disgruntled pumpkin.
—

—
"Doc-doctor...doctor.. Smith. Smith?" He stuttered between frightened breaths. But Smith was a VERY human name. So too did he LOOK human.

Jonathan extended his own hand, trembling slightly, but it didn't quite reach Doctor Smith's.