Every morning for the past several months, Emma Swan has awoken under the expectation that she'll find herself in the apartment she shared with Mary Margaret back in Storybrooke, tangled in soft sheets and nursing some kind of head injury. This morning is no different, in fact, save that her usual disappointment is replaced with a sudden, overwhelming panic when she cracks open her eyes and sees, not the thatched roof of a Tabula Rasan hut, but the high-vaulted ceiling of what she instinctively knows to be a castle.

"What--"

Her voice comes as little more than an exhale as she shoves herself out of the impossibly comfortable bed, half stumbling until she finds her footing in the center of the room. She couldn't look more out of place, dressed in nothing save the red cotton shorts and white tee she fell asleep in, bare toes curling in the plush carpet at her feet. Hair tousled and eyes wild, she turns on the spot, taking in the sight of it all, wondering why the hell this place feels familiar in spite of everything, and stopping only when her gaze lands on a pair of swords crossed over an empty fireplace.

Jaw set, Emma strides forward, pressing up onto the balls of her feet to gain enough height to free one of the swords from its scabbard, steel stinging the air with a sharp sound that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. It's heavier than she anticipates, bulkier than a gun, if easier to handle than a chainsaw, but just having something in hand eases her nerves. Staying here isn't an option, wherever here is, and while she wishes there were at least a pair of boots laying around to complete her mismatched ensemble, she heads out into the stone-floored hallway without, sword in hand and disbelieving mutterings under her breath.

Hearing voices up ahead, just around the nearest corner, she speeds up, sword lifting in anticipation of needing to defend herself, only to stop short the moment she turns when she sees just who she'd be attacking.

"What the hell is going on?"