[ settling into this place has been.. interesting. and far less easy than one might expect.
on the outside, it's quite simple. tighnari tells him what he needs to know about surviving here, how to earn currency (not ideal, for him, but doable), how to acquire food, he even supplies a roof over his head. things couldn't be going more smoothly, for cyno. and yet..
he can't get comfortable. it feels like stepping into ill-fitting clothes that cling in all the wrong places. cyno finds himself treading water, unable to find his footing, his entire life's purpose pulled out from under his feet like a rug. he simply does not know what to do with himself here, he does not know who he is when he is not the general mahamatra. it's frustrating, and while cyno does not complain aloud, he's sure that tighnari has noticed his nervous energy, his distraction, his brooding. cyno has been a matra for so long that he has forgotten how to simply be cyno, if he ever really knew to begin with. his training began so young.
nevertheless, his sleep is fitful. he'd had a scant few days at home to grow used to dreaming before arriving here, and he has not taken terribly well to that, either. cyno's dreams are disjointed, confusing, occasionally unpleasant, but tonight -
tonight his dreams reek of blood and gore and ichor. angry, vengeful voices hiss in his ear. bloody hands tear at him, pulling at his arms, his legs, yanking, ripping, tugging, threatening to pull him apart. he recognizes the voices, each and every one, for cyno has never forgotten the people that he has passed judgment upon, never forgotten a single face, never forgotten their voices as they cursed him. they're angry, they're furious, aching for revenge. there's only blackness around him, a yawning abyss beneath him, but he can feel the moisture on the soles of his feet, thick and clinging, drying, gelatinous blood, its scent clinging to him. cyno looks down, and his hands are slick with it, with old blood, brownish black and sticky. his skin cracks, oozes, falling away until he can see the pink-white of his bones.
they won't stop screaming.
or is that his own voice in his ears, ringing in his head? is he shouting?
cyno wakes with a start, his body slick with sweat, sticking his hair to his face and neck. his heart pounds like a fist against his ribs, and reflexively, he looks to his hands. ]
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timeasmymeasure
forward dated nightmare thread.. u know
Date: 2022-11-16 08:39 pm (UTC)on the outside, it's quite simple. tighnari tells him what he needs to know about surviving here, how to earn currency (not ideal, for him, but doable), how to acquire food, he even supplies a roof over his head. things couldn't be going more smoothly, for cyno. and yet..
he can't get comfortable. it feels like stepping into ill-fitting clothes that cling in all the wrong places. cyno finds himself treading water, unable to find his footing, his entire life's purpose pulled out from under his feet like a rug. he simply does not know what to do with himself here, he does not know who he is when he is not the general mahamatra. it's frustrating, and while cyno does not complain aloud, he's sure that tighnari has noticed his nervous energy, his distraction, his brooding. cyno has been a matra for so long that he has forgotten how to simply be cyno, if he ever really knew to begin with. his training began so young.
nevertheless, his sleep is fitful. he'd had a scant few days at home to grow used to dreaming before arriving here, and he has not taken terribly well to that, either. cyno's dreams are disjointed, confusing, occasionally unpleasant, but tonight -
tonight his dreams reek of blood and gore and ichor. angry, vengeful voices hiss in his ear. bloody hands tear at him, pulling at his arms, his legs, yanking, ripping, tugging, threatening to pull him apart. he recognizes the voices, each and every one, for cyno has never forgotten the people that he has passed judgment upon, never forgotten a single face, never forgotten their voices as they cursed him. they're angry, they're furious, aching for revenge. there's only blackness around him, a yawning abyss beneath him, but he can feel the moisture on the soles of his feet, thick and clinging, drying, gelatinous blood, its scent clinging to him. cyno looks down, and his hands are slick with it, with old blood, brownish black and sticky. his skin cracks, oozes, falling away until he can see the pink-white of his bones.
they won't stop screaming.
or is that his own voice in his ears, ringing in his head? is he shouting?
cyno wakes with a start, his body slick with sweat, sticking his hair to his face and neck. his heart pounds like a fist against his ribs, and reflexively, he looks to his hands. ]