[L has been unable to partake in much of popular culture in his world, but for a moment as he walks, he is struck uncannily by the feeling that he is Ebenezer Scrooge, wreathed in the gentle arms and ethereal wisp of the Ghost of Christmas Past. And is that not appropriate, for the Omen of one long dead, even if L himself scarcely fits his imagined role with no wrinkles, gray hair or stocking cap?
The locusts roil underfoot, but do not trip him. This much, he can do; this much is going well, better, in fact, than much of this fraught dreamwalking experiment has.
Red-flecked, though, he stares, and starts to falter. Red-flecked, his eyes don't immediately go to Iskierka as she reacts; they're fixed forward, instead, in the direction she too is looking. He snaps out of it and starts looking for a way to save them, some pattern to cling to and use, but she's faster, cocooning and sheltering his scrawny body.
There's are sounds of protests, almost wordless, almost without language entirely, and L realizes after a second that he's the one making them.]
Omen!
[A word, at least, and he can hear the sound of mandibles snipping and pulping grotesquely far too close to his ears.]
Omen...
[This time it sounds vaguely like begging, and it's not for Iskierka to give more than she already has. He's calling what's lost, and sorely needed. She's coming? He thinks he can feel Lycka coming, but maybe it's the delusion of hope after all the exhaustion and fear and doubt.]
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The locusts roil underfoot, but do not trip him. This much, he can do; this much is going well, better, in fact, than much of this fraught dreamwalking experiment has.
Red-flecked, though, he stares, and starts to falter. Red-flecked, his eyes don't immediately go to Iskierka as she reacts; they're fixed forward, instead, in the direction she too is looking. He snaps out of it and starts looking for a way to save them, some pattern to cling to and use, but she's faster, cocooning and sheltering his scrawny body.
There's are sounds of protests, almost wordless, almost without language entirely, and L realizes after a second that he's the one making them.]
Omen!
[A word, at least, and he can hear the sound of mandibles snipping and pulping grotesquely far too close to his ears.]
Omen...
[This time it sounds vaguely like begging, and it's not for Iskierka to give more than she already has. He's calling what's lost, and sorely needed. She's coming? He thinks he can feel Lycka coming, but maybe it's the delusion of hope after all the exhaustion and fear and doubt.]