Silver Insanity

Ametrine: You've entered a hallway; it extends for a fair distance in either direction; doors line its sides at roughly twenty meter intervals, four on each side. At either end, you can see wide sweeping spiral staircases that go both up and down. Nobody is in sight.

Willoughby blinks.

"I'm sorry, Eileen, I'll have to speak with you later. There is a yellow dragon that needs catching at the moment. He is a rather impetuous fellow...."

Willoughby glides into the hallway.

Assuming that Mr. Willoughby assumes that Ametrine knows how to get to the dining hall, Ametrines hides against the ceiling rafters, hoping that Mr. Willoughby will lead him to the it.

Mr. Willoughby is tremendously amused by the sight of Ametrine clumsily attempting to hide from him. It's not a bad try, for someone untrained in the art of stealth, but there's a reason why training is necessary.

Against his better judgment, Willoughby finds himself muttering, "Hm. No way to discern his route. I must attempt to turn aside the most precarious of the possible scenarios..." He hurries to the staircase at the end of the hallway, and begins to descend it. How will Ametrine handle this situation, he wonders?

Giggling far too loudly to himself, Ametrine follows Mr. Willoughby as silently as a snickering dragon can.

The next floor down has a slightly more complicated structure - a corridor heads off, looking much the same for the first few doors' worth of length, and then it forks.

From off in the distance, you can hear faint cries of "Stop, Thief!", and "After it!", and "Whee!", accompanied by the sound of running feet.

There is a pair of guards stationed at the entrance to this level. They seem as yet oblivious to both Ametrine and the noises from elsewhere on this floor.

"Oh my, what species of trouble has Ametrine discovered now?"

Willoughby takes the fork in the corridor which appears to lead towards the commotion.

Two corners later, you come upon the source of the commotion (though, by the sound of it, the pursuing guards are still some distance away.)

A raven-headed sphinx, roughly housecat sized, is careening down the corridor towards you, black wings flapping madly. Clutched in her paws is a golden scepter set with rubies.

She pauses a few feet from Mr. Willoughby, hovering in midair. "Huh. You look familiar. Have we met before?"

"I'm afraid I don't recall such a meeting."

Willoughby eyes the sphinx with restrained interest.

"I apologize for the brusque nature of the question, but I cannot refrain from asking it: what, exactly, are you doing?"

"Talking to you! Why, what did you think I was doing?"

The sound of pursuing guards is getting closer; you can't have much more than a dozen seconds before they round the corner.