[Pom nearly cuts back again, but his stomach grumbles, his teeth aching. He can't help himself any longer; he's forced to eat by a voracious body he struggles to control, to even consider his own anymore. Devouring the meat in his hands, he's awash with a mixture of guilt, frustration, and disgust as his gaze lands on the remains near Northly's feet. He's still hungry. He's always hungry.
But the longer he looks, the worse he feels, the vibrant color of the fresh blood too akin to the puddle on the garage floor, the guts too similar to those torn from the man he brought home for himself and Gale. They ripped into him like animals, like true monsters, not caring who he was or what he'd done or if he was a person—
His eyes squeeze shut as he covers his mouth with his hand, trying to shut it all out - the sight, the smell, all of it.]
[She sees his eyes fall on the pile, senses his rising distress. Hastily, she places the gore in her inventory, out of the way of temptation, then presses close to his side.]
[He chokes on his words, trying to hold them down along with what little is in him stomach; he barely manages, but his throat feels raw from the effort, his chest heaving.]
It's- color. The color is- it's too close. It's too...
[He shakes his head, struggling to even word what he's feeling as a fresh wave of anxiety and horror flood through the Imprint.]
[She slaps her hands over his eyes. Through their bond, she sends images of darkness, of the ocean depths, of cool blues and greens. She doesn't know what he needs, apart from food, but if the colour is a problem, she can take it away.]
[For a solid minute, Pom stands silently, trembling against Northly's hand as she turns the tide of the Imprint, tethering herself to him mentally as well as physically; he keeps one hand over his mouth, the other clutching hers, clinging to it as though the depths she shows him would drag him under. Slowly, his breathing steadies, and he lets himself drift in the colors that dance before him, in the smell of her skin so close to him. It's not perfect, but it's... better.
He butts his head against her, folding over onto her smaller frame as he pulls her closer. The fur of his mane remains on end, riled along the back of his spine as it blends into his pomp along his neck, but the rest of him hangs against her - he's so tired.
A breath, another beat. He'd been so irritated with her, so sure it'd be better to push her away than put her in danger. Yet here he is once again, not sure he can live without her.]
[He swallows hard against her, taking in another breath, but unmoving otherwise. He's afraid to lose her to himself, but he's equally afraid to let her go.]
And there are many in the ocean. [She keeps her hands in place and slowly starts manipulating the air so his lungs fill with what lies above them, untainted by the blood of the unhorned rabbit.]
[She hums, considering. Pom would be more comfortable with his glasses, but once they're below the surface, that will block out plenty of light. But... they're so close to leaving. And they need to leave.
So instead she pulls a stream of blood from her veins — blue and coppery, she doesn't imagine it will cause the same issue, and with his sight impaired he won't be able to see its source — she freezes it in a thin pane in the shape of goggles.] This will not be as effective, but may suffice.
[Despite the fact she freezes it when his eyes closed, he knows she's doing something with her blood - he smelled it as soon as she pulled it out of her body, his nostrils flaring as he cracks his eyes open. Indeed, the thin pane helps, though his nose remains wrinkled.]
[He wants to argue, but has no energy to do so. He lets his head hang, too exhausted to worry about how she uses her blood, or how the hunger is still gnawing at him, or how he's not wearing any pants. He'll have to walk home in his Shift, as these days, "giant monster" is less of a shock to the general populace than "man with no pants."]
[He hns to himself as he feels her wrap his arm around her waist; he keeps his eyes nearly shut, taking off the blood-made spectacles and setting them atop his head. Sorry, Northly - he just can't keep that reminder of what horrors they're becoming in front of him.]
Don't really know the birds of this world. [He tries to focus on the rest of his senses: the grass feels good beneath his feet, the claws on his toes — rarely seen, as he so often is wearing shoes — catching on the dirt.] Lot of blue ones last year, though.
[He lets out a groan as he suddenly realizes how long it's been - how long he's been here.]
[Wow, excuse! She could (and would!) have made blood glasses in her own world, too. The blue is just added chic. And does he even still have colour vision?]
Do they swarm? Or are they simply plentiful? What size?
[Look, one doesn't keep hair this good and colorful without being able to see said color himself, despite the fact that more indigo and violet strands — matching the scales and mane of his Shift — are joining the mulberry ones each day.]
No swarms, but there were plenty of them, yeah. The ones I saw weren't much bigger than you, when you change.
[So not enough for him to eat. Just a little snack.]
[Pom slows, opening his eyes just enough to see what she's conjured; they water immediately, and he's forced to close them.]
Shorter tail, longer beak. I'd draw you a picture if I could.
[He's well aware his art is not exactly display-worthy even at the best of times; what he doesn't know is that he shouldn't leave his journal open on his desk for anyone who might come through a mirror to see, so Northly might have gotten a peek at some scrawled illustrations of not only a pink cat in a green cape and a bird-faced beast with a lumbering body, but even her own Shift form.]
[Don't ever let Pom see your fridge, Northly. He'll die of shame.]
All right.
[He falls quiet after that, listening to the woods around them as he lets her guide him toward the water. He can tell when they're getting close by the change in the scents, those of moisture and damp, muddy earth overpowering that of the trees and grasses.]
[He's about to ask about the flying fish, but then she says she'll bring them to him, implying she's leaving, and he feels his hand grip hers tighter, tight enough to hurt.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cw: boy howdy allusion to cannibalism
But the longer he looks, the worse he feels, the vibrant color of the fresh blood too akin to the puddle on the garage floor, the guts too similar to those torn from the man he brought home for himself and Gale. They ripped into him like animals, like true monsters, not caring who he was or what he'd done or if he was a person—
His eyes squeeze shut as he covers his mouth with his hand, trying to shut it all out - the sight, the smell, all of it.]
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We must feed you.
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[He chokes on his words, trying to hold them down along with what little is in him stomach; he barely manages, but his throat feels raw from the effort, his chest heaving.]
It's- color. The color is- it's too close. It's too...
[He shakes his head, struggling to even word what he's feeling as a fresh wave of anxiety and horror flood through the Imprint.]
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He butts his head against her, folding over onto her smaller frame as he pulls her closer. The fur of his mane remains on end, riled along the back of his spine as it blends into his pomp along his neck, but the rest of him hangs against her - he's so tired.
A breath, another beat. He'd been so irritated with her, so sure it'd be better to push her away than put her in danger. Yet here he is once again, not sure he can live without her.]
Sorry.
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Okay.
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[He closes his eyes, and between that and the untainted air, he feels just a little better.]
You'll have to guide me. I can't... can't see out here. Not without my glasses.
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So instead she pulls a stream of blood from her veins — blue and coppery, she doesn't imagine it will cause the same issue, and with his sight impaired he won't be able to see its source — she freezes it in a thin pane in the shape of goggles.] This will not be as effective, but may suffice.
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Northly.
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[That's not even a question.]
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I have a surplus and it is suitable.
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Just hold my hand and lead me.
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The ocean is not far.
[She takes his hands in hers and squeezes.]
Tell me about birds. What kinds are common spawns in this season?
[Distractions! As she wraps his arm around her waist and guides him towards the harbour.]
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Don't really know the birds of this world. [He tries to focus on the rest of his senses: the grass feels good beneath his feet, the claws on his toes — rarely seen, as he so often is wearing shoes — catching on the dirt.] Lot of blue ones last year, though.
[He lets out a groan as he suddenly realizes how long it's been - how long he's been here.]
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Do they swarm? Or are they simply plentiful? What size?
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No swarms, but there were plenty of them, yeah. The ones I saw weren't much bigger than you, when you change.
[So not enough for him to eat. Just a little snack.]
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Like this?
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Shorter tail, longer beak. I'd draw you a picture if I could.
[He's well aware his art is not exactly display-worthy even at the best of times; what he doesn't know is that he shouldn't leave his journal open on his desk for anyone who might come through a mirror to see, so Northly might have gotten a peek at some scrawled illustrations of not only a pink cat in a green cape and a bird-faced beast with a lumbering body, but even her own Shift form.]
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When we return. [She likes his drawings, has stolen a few she didn't think would be missed, put them on the fridge.]
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All right.
[He falls quiet after that, listening to the woods around them as he lets her guide him toward the water. He can tell when they're getting close by the change in the scents, those of moisture and damp, muddy earth overpowering that of the trees and grasses.]
I don't have to get in, do I?
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You may stay out here if you wish, but the fish in this world do not fly. [Like they do in normal worlds.] I will bring them to you.
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Don't leave me.
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