OOC: Dream
Lix. He didn't know what but something here was called Lix. That name was all he could think of while the trees moved and rustled as the night wind blew through them, their leaves reducing the light of the moon to small fragments of light on the grass. There was a gravestone. He couldn't quite read it, or maybe he couldn't quite comprehend the letters. Maybe it was just too dark to see them right. He really wasn't sure. He drew a thumb across the letters - the smart, well-carved ones at the top of the stone and the crude, almost unreadable ones below them. How he recognized one set of letters as difficult to read when he couldn't read either wasn't something he thought to question. He shuffled his feet a little, fidgeting to stay warm in the night air and listening to the sound of the grass shifting beneath his feet.
He wasn't here alone. He couldn't tell if his companion was a man or a woman but some part of him knew without a doubt that they were a friend. He - she? - mumbled something under his breath. The words were as unclear as the writing on the stone had been but the mournful tone of his friend's voice was clear. He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, trying to comfort him, but the friend just glanced at it for a few seconds and then brushed it away. His friend said something else incomprehensible and shook his head, walking away. He followed through a town, its streets deserted at this hour, unsure whether he felt safe and comfortable or like he was being suffocated. He was fairly sure those feelings were relatively incompatible with each other, anyway, and he was struggling to work out how he could feel both long after they'd entered an inn of some sort and he'd retreated into unfamiliar blankets. He didn't sleep.
Eventually the sun rose. More friends woke up, a woman and an old man. He said something, he wasn't sure what - it was a bizarre feeling not knowing what words were coming out of his own mouth - but he was fairly sure he was complaining about feeling tired still. He wanted to complain about feeling tired, anyway. The friend he'd spoken to last night laughed, saying something that - even without being able to comprehend his speech - he could tell was a jab at his masculinity. He just laughed.
He felt a little better once they started walking. Still tired - he really should have slept - but better.
He wasn't here alone. He couldn't tell if his companion was a man or a woman but some part of him knew without a doubt that they were a friend. He - she? - mumbled something under his breath. The words were as unclear as the writing on the stone had been but the mournful tone of his friend's voice was clear. He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, trying to comfort him, but the friend just glanced at it for a few seconds and then brushed it away. His friend said something else incomprehensible and shook his head, walking away. He followed through a town, its streets deserted at this hour, unsure whether he felt safe and comfortable or like he was being suffocated. He was fairly sure those feelings were relatively incompatible with each other, anyway, and he was struggling to work out how he could feel both long after they'd entered an inn of some sort and he'd retreated into unfamiliar blankets. He didn't sleep.
Eventually the sun rose. More friends woke up, a woman and an old man. He said something, he wasn't sure what - it was a bizarre feeling not knowing what words were coming out of his own mouth - but he was fairly sure he was complaining about feeling tired still. He wanted to complain about feeling tired, anyway. The friend he'd spoken to last night laughed, saying something that - even without being able to comprehend his speech - he could tell was a jab at his masculinity. He just laughed.
He felt a little better once they started walking. Still tired - he really should have slept - but better.