[L winces, his breath catching; as able and willing as he typically is to endure the emptiest and harshest types of deprivation, his already pared-to-essentials frame and overtaxed mind don't transition well to the other side. Once they've crossed the threshold, his hands are covering his mouth, and he's all wide, staring eyes and shallow, straining breaths.
He follows the girl, stumbling a bit, feeling that he's off the beaten path and struggling for it. But she seems to know the way, and the man who does not trust, ever, for the knowledge that it will result in instant and imminent death, doesn't exactly have another choice. He clings to her by the thread guiding them together, the one that makes his own omen currently inaccessible.
Even when the noise rises to hideous cacophony, his hands stay over his mouth. What if he's a cannibal, too? His feet are careful, but however starved thin he might be, his steps carry weight, and consequences. He wants to look away, all while understanding that he must look where he's stepping, or risk faltering, and falling.]
What...?
[He hears, again, the message, or at least the gist of it, but he's not a soldier, not a fighter. Physically, he's a fragile and bony thing, with something of a child still about him in spite of his adult height and voice. Mentally, he's many times more resilient, but how far can that protect him when he's being assailed or asked to stand and fight?]
I'm not a killer, and I have no desire to consume. Will I die if I don't?
[If he dies here, or sustains comparable injuries, he knows there's a good chance that the psychic damage that translates to will result in his waking-world death. This is pertinent information if he can secure it.]
cw: oh, so many insects; insect cannibalism; wartime violence
He follows the girl, stumbling a bit, feeling that he's off the beaten path and struggling for it. But she seems to know the way, and the man who does not trust, ever, for the knowledge that it will result in instant and imminent death, doesn't exactly have another choice. He clings to her by the thread guiding them together, the one that makes his own omen currently inaccessible.
Even when the noise rises to hideous cacophony, his hands stay over his mouth. What if he's a cannibal, too? His feet are careful, but however starved thin he might be, his steps carry weight, and consequences. He wants to look away, all while understanding that he must look where he's stepping, or risk faltering, and falling.]
What...?
[He hears, again, the message, or at least the gist of it, but he's not a soldier, not a fighter. Physically, he's a fragile and bony thing, with something of a child still about him in spite of his adult height and voice. Mentally, he's many times more resilient, but how far can that protect him when he's being assailed or asked to stand and fight?]
I'm not a killer, and I have no desire to consume. Will I die if I don't?
[If he dies here, or sustains comparable injuries, he knows there's a good
chance that the psychic damage that translates to will result in his waking-world death. This is pertinent information if he can secure it.]