[ He feels it in his teeth first. A dissonance. An ache up the line of his jaw. A juttering compression of space at his temple that makes him shake his head, wet hair flinging like a dog trying to shake off a whistle only it can hear. Only this won't shake; the droning thrum only compresses into something like a sound but not. Not made for ears.
So ears aren't what he follows. His aren't real here anyway, no more than his teeth or his bones, but it helps to remember what it feels like to have a body if he hopes to return to his. Blood, then, must be the thing that rushes through him freer and louder the closer he gets to the source.
Through the wall of a colorless room, the shadow of him folds into being. Darkness gains volume and mass, but not detail, a bleeding ink stain blooming at the edge of vision.
A young elven woman lies swaddled in blankets. She isn't alone. ]
cedric;
So ears aren't what he follows. His aren't real here anyway, no more than his teeth or his bones, but it helps to remember what it feels like to have a body if he hopes to return to his. Blood, then, must be the thing that rushes through him freer and louder the closer he gets to the source.
Through the wall of a colorless room, the shadow of him folds into being. Darkness gains volume and mass, but not detail, a bleeding ink stain blooming at the edge of vision.
A young elven woman lies swaddled in blankets. She isn't alone. ]