[It's been since Illarion died that he last meditated. Even when alive, he was always an inconstant practitioner of the art (much to a certain priest's amused dismay). Having someone experienced lead him through a session is exactly what he needed to take it up again, not that--oh, inconstant heart--he knew he wanted to take up meditation again until some stranger had offered to teach him.
So, here he is sitting on his heels in the sand in a crouch most comfortable for a shrike, wrists turned upward on his knees and eyes closed. His bare toes dig comfortably into the sand, and his shadow seems to have disappeared somewhere.
He's pretending to breathe more than he's really breathing, since breath control's part of the exercise even if one doesn't need the air. It is--pleasant, is the strongest word he can muster for the feeling, pleasant to feel his wider awareness slip into the beach and the underlying current of (grief/rage/pain) that was constant to the Unearthed slip away. A moment of silence inside his own head is a blessed thing, a thing to be held onto--
Ah.
He opens an unfocused eye at the question.]
I don't have these. [So, no, they are not by function of nonexistence.] Not being a mammal.
[He closes the eye again, resuming his simulacrum of breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth, ignore that most of the air doesn't make it to your lungs...
No, wait, he can't focus on this now that the thought's gotten into his head.] Does that usually happen, when you are meditating?
B, forgive me,
So, here he is sitting on his heels in the sand in a crouch most comfortable for a shrike, wrists turned upward on his knees and eyes closed. His bare toes dig comfortably into the sand, and his shadow seems to have disappeared somewhere.
He's pretending to breathe more than he's really breathing, since breath control's part of the exercise even if one doesn't need the air. It is--pleasant, is the strongest word he can muster for the feeling, pleasant to feel his wider awareness slip into the beach and the underlying current of (grief/rage/pain) that was constant to the Unearthed slip away. A moment of silence inside his own head is a blessed thing, a thing to be held onto--
Ah.
He opens an unfocused eye at the question.]
I don't have these. [So, no, they are not by function of nonexistence.] Not being a mammal.
[He closes the eye again, resuming his simulacrum of breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth, ignore that most of the air doesn't make it to your lungs...
No, wait, he can't focus on this now that the thought's gotten into his head.] Does that usually happen, when you are meditating?