[ When Mishka attempts to move and find physical support, stinging, wringing pain shoots through his arms, up through his shoulders. Moving hurts. Any amount of exertion feels like fighting against the very fabric of his being.
The voice comes again, a stinging migraine. It reaches through the mind like the rapid spread of weeds. For the briefest moment as it speaks, sudden, bright flashes of large, grotesque vines choking airships, camps, soldiers play against the inside of Mishka's eyelids. ]
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The voice comes again, a stinging migraine. It reaches through the mind like the rapid spread of weeds. For the briefest moment as it speaks, sudden, bright flashes of large, grotesque vines choking airships, camps, soldiers play against the inside of Mishka's eyelids. ]
Iͯ͑ ̄̍ͤa͂͋͛̔m̿ ̀y̏ͤ̿̅̋̈́o͒͊uͬ̾rͦ͆̓ͥ̂ c͊ͩre̍ͥ̋͋ͪ̇̍a̒̄͐͊̆̋tȏͨ̓͆͐͊̚ř͗͊̎ͣ̾̚.͒̈́ͧ̈̐ ̓͐͌̄ͪ̆Ỳ̋̓̾̾̽o̒̓̆̍͑ͩū̐̌̄̌rͦͦ͑ͯ s̋ͮͫ͆ͤå̅́̆ͥ͛l͂̐̒ͨ̄v̎̓͑ā͗ͪt̃ͫ̋iͫ̾͆̽̏̈őn̓͒͂ͧ͌̄.́̿̓͛̋ͮ͒
T͎͍̩o͔̜̗g̭et̲͈he̯̮̫r̤̭̣̹͈͎,̹͚̱ ̪̟̬̝̬̗t̮̙̹͇ͅh̦͔̙͉̲͈e̥ ͙̟͖̘̼̣w͙̳̭̦̖̮o̯̜ṟ̳̞̪ld̮͍̞ ̼̣̤̰̬̤c̘̖̯͕̞ͅo͎̜̞͖͓u͙͔̱̻l͈̪̙̺̼ͅͅḍ͖̪̰̝̱ ̻̰͙͍̦͕b̝̞͙͓ͅe̙̺̪̥̯͎͙ ̱̭̤̺̠̱o̲̲̜urs.̠͉̙̮ ̙̖̥Ỵ̰̹̮e̲͎t̺͖ ͇̮y̩̜̝̙̟o͇̼u̟̘̼̹͍͚ ̞̼͚ͅc͎̠̘̬̭o̮̗̗͙̹̥n̩̺t̯i̟n̺̬̪̬̳̼̖u͕e̲͉̘͎̭͎ ̳̯̞͈̮̰t͕͙͉̣̠̺͎o̥̻ ̣͓̤͓̦ͅd̠̻̝̝̭̤e̱̣̼ͅny ̱̺̠̰̖̖m̞̠͚̱e̙͖̗.̦̲̼̼