[bent over, hands on his knees and the impossible act of recovering his breath after what was a long stretch of distance and as he raises both his eyes and stance - that shadowed figure pulsing in the dark is only a woman after all.
come here is a request he can also comply with, and there's a bit of a sheepish smile as if to say uh oh someone's in trouble now and that someone is me, but either way - dreaming or wakeful, his feet move in he direction to stop an arm's length away.
her eyes are the discordant colors of a painting he shudders to recall, a sick storm, a muted afterbirth of fire - and it is this last detail that rings a bell - albeit one of alarm, but he only notes this, nodding at the her because she's asked a question, and as he cannot yet see through her he assumes she's possibly real. or maybe this party hadn't truly started yet.]
Yeah. It's a hell of a----
[breath comes in fits and starts - and there's no way he should have been able to swim all that way, and yet. he stares at her as if expecting her to be crooked in her frame - (a frame of bones and not winding sheets but a monochrome of warm, unsettling light) - maybe her unpleasantness is more comforting than comfort might be.
but he doesn't beat feet, doesn't climb back into the water (he did, in fact swim all that way) and though his limbs will pay for this later, he's mostly just out of breath, and trying to make words - and sense out of the scene.]
How did you do it?
[a perfectly normal question. he's unsure of what sort of answer to expect - the mind is capable of all sorts of weird shit. there's no boat tied up that he can see - but his sightline isn't everything - and it isn't even accurate, because it's not the woman that was crooked, it's the rocks, no - the rise of that awful spire. it tightens his chest to look at it, so he'll look at her instead.]
no subject
come here is a request he can also comply with, and there's a bit of a sheepish smile as if to say uh oh someone's in trouble now and that someone is me, but either way - dreaming or wakeful, his feet move in he direction to stop an arm's length away.
her eyes are the discordant colors of a painting he shudders to recall, a sick storm, a muted afterbirth of fire - and it is this last detail that rings a bell - albeit one of alarm, but he only notes this, nodding at the her because she's asked a question, and as he cannot yet see through her he assumes she's possibly real. or maybe this party hadn't truly started yet.]
Yeah. It's a hell of a----
[breath comes in fits and starts - and there's no way he should have been able to swim all that way, and yet. he stares at her as if expecting her to be crooked in her frame - (a frame of bones and not winding sheets but a monochrome of warm, unsettling light) - maybe her unpleasantness is more comforting than comfort might be.
but he doesn't beat feet, doesn't climb back into the water (he did, in fact swim all that way) and though his limbs will pay for this later, he's mostly just out of breath, and trying to make words - and sense out of the scene.]
How did you do it?
[a perfectly normal question. he's unsure of what sort of answer to expect - the mind is capable of all sorts of weird shit. there's no boat tied up that he can see - but his sightline isn't everything - and it isn't even accurate, because it's not the woman that was crooked, it's the rocks, no - the rise of that awful spire. it tightens his chest to look at it, so he'll look at her instead.]