Locked in a room, Whistler still in the doll. Still trapped in the tragedy of being a fuckboy. Rumple pacing stuffed fingers to his patchwork head, thinking, planning and debating. "what is allusive can be found" he thought. It still escaped him, however. The witch was in the kitchen making a stew out of a couple of children she had caught earlier and was in the process of cooking them down. "No need to hurry." she thought "this stew will turn out just fine." she stirred it, and an eye and an ear floated to the top of the simmering pot. Disappointment was waiting for his share of the prize, though the witch was telling him he must wait till it is finished before he may have his share. The rooms were dark with bars on the windows, and a giant spear of light landing on the little doll. Dust and light, Rumple no plan but somehow he believed it would all work out. Trapped in his eight by eight cell a storm door separating him from his enemy. He fou...