He came to his senses slowly-- piecing through the intangible debris that was the viceral recollections of someone (or something) beyond just himself with more difficulty than what was usual for his experience. Picking up information that wasn't strictly his usually happened on the fly, with stories, details, and images emerging from some subconscious collection and spilling into his awareness. Buildings he had never visited and events he had never witnessed were there at his fingertips, with the full sensory and emotional depth that came with lived experiences.
This was different. This was More-- and Oscar Pine needed a moment or several to piece through the fractured shards on the edge of his sense of self alongside the wider lense granted by Sight greater than what he was used to.
Rising on two feet in a disheveled pile of smokey colored fluff, hints of orange and green bleeding through the dusky hues, the boy-- no, the young shrike, sought for something, anything that was familiar. The rough hewn work clothes he wore were dusty with dirt and the broken bits of twigs and leaves.
It was a start.
"I-I'm fine," he'd reply softly to anyone who asked, stumbling over the words in a voice that was unfamiliar to him. His gaze was unfocused while he struggled with knowing what to focus on, and not even the well of thousands of lifetimes inside his soul could provide any parallel which he could grasp.
1.1 Arrival | Oscar/ Sweetroll | OTA
or something) beyond just himself with more difficulty than what was usual for his experience. Picking up information that wasn't strictly his usually happened on the fly, with stories, details, and images emerging from some subconscious collection and spilling into his awareness. Buildings he had never visited and events he had never witnessed were there at his fingertips, with the full sensory and emotional depth that came with lived experiences.This was different. This was More-- and Oscar Pine needed a moment or several to piece through the fractured shards on the edge of his sense of self alongside the wider lense granted by Sight greater than what he was used to.
Rising on two feet in a disheveled pile of smokey colored fluff, hints of orange and green bleeding through the dusky hues, the boy-- no, the young shrike, sought for something, anything that was familiar. The rough hewn work clothes he wore were dusty with dirt and the broken bits of twigs and leaves.
It was a start.
"I-I'm fine," he'd reply softly to anyone who asked, stumbling over the words in a voice that was unfamiliar to him. His gaze was unfocused while he struggled with knowing what to focus on, and not even the well of thousands of lifetimes inside his soul could provide any parallel which he could grasp.
He was lying.