He is loud. Given license, even just the slightest bit of her attention, it might come spilling through for her. Like water leaking from a crack in a cup becomes a black ocean of sensation, here is the buzzing of a headache turning rancid Hiss of a dark thing that lives in dark places. His hand on his temple may as well have been a hand holding a manuscript in a close bundle while black ichor oozed free from between the pages for all the practical difference it had made to what he feels like.
(Somewhere, someone is putting terrible things on paper. Somewhere, someone is screaming at them to stop.)
So anyway, he could really go for about four aspirin and a stiff drink.
"Sorry," he says. Normal. Punctuated by a vague dismissive motion of his free hand. If Wake's privy to the shape of that fetid sensation he's cloaked in, he doesn't sound it. "My head's killing me. If that's true, you're probably getting a taste of it."
Blinking back that icepick bashing it's way out of his skull from the inside sensation, he squints past her. There's a shape out there in the waxy diffusion of lamplight. Boulders. Jagged rocks. A god's shrine. Wake recognizes it, somehow.
no subject
(Somewhere, someone is putting terrible things on paper. Somewhere, someone is screaming at them to stop.)
So anyway, he could really go for about four aspirin and a stiff drink.
"Sorry," he says. Normal. Punctuated by a vague dismissive motion of his free hand. If Wake's privy to the shape of that fetid sensation he's cloaked in, he doesn't sound it. "My head's killing me. If that's true, you're probably getting a taste of it."
Blinking back that icepick bashing it's way out of his skull from the inside sensation, he squints past her. There's a shape out there in the waxy diffusion of lamplight. Boulders. Jagged rocks. A god's shrine. Wake recognizes it, somehow.