[01] Dead and Dying, Fog and Breathing

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She opens her eyes and sees nothing but white. Above her, around her, the white is smothering on all sides. The air smells wet and dead, like the beginnings of rot, and there's a chill in her bones that feels like it's seeping in as deep as it can get, down to her soul.

On impulse, she raises a hand and sees grey. Something inside of her says that it's wrong, that her skin should be somehow warmer.

It occurs to her, then, that she doesn't know where she is. A second later, that she doesn't know who she is. The thought isn't distressing, though, and she takes a breath of the white around her, thinking. Her head throbs, abruptly, and she winces at the sudden spike of pain.

It's cold where she is, and she doesn't feel much like moving. She hasn't looked at her body yet, and can't figure out what she'd expect to see. She feels like it would be easier to stay where she is and wait for something to come to her. She takes another breath, closes her eyes, and inhales the scent of smoke and rot and dirt, thick around her head.

Another breath, and she shifts, pulling herself to her knees. More white moves with her, this time soft fabric against her knees. Looking down, she sees more grey skin, a warm shade that seems out of place against the chill of the white, and a skirt around her legs that blends in better, spattered with something like blood around the edges. She looks down at herself, and sees more of the same; a soft frame wrapped up in white cloth, small hands curled against the ground, and wisps of something dark in her lap.

She looks around, then, sees grass surrounding her to all sides. Something in her mind says green, but what she sees is dark and sickly, the color of ash after a fire. The sky is filled with white, hanging thickly around her in a deep mist. Her head pounds again, and her face squinches.

The ground beneath her is cold and wet, and the air feels almost liquid with mist. The chill sticks to her skin, sinks inside, and the wet slips into her lungs like it belongs there. Somehow, it all feels wrong.

Her head hurts, the throbbing slowly becoming more frequent. There's a thick feeling in her chest, like she needs to be somewhere, doing something that her mind just won't let her know, and she shivers. Whoever she is, there's a reason why she's here.

The more she looks around, the more disturbing the area begins to feel. Something about it is too dead, unpleasant in a way that she can't place. A gust of wind blows, sliding a few locks of white into her vision, and she closes her eyes again. There's too much white here, and she doesn't want to be a part of it. It doesn't feel right to be a part of it.

The idea that she needs to be somewhere only grows stronger with every passing moment, a sense of urgency settling in her bones like lead. Whatever needs to be done, it needs to be done quickly, soon.

On that impulse, she stands, almost overbalancing at a sudden weight around her head. A raised hand confirms that there are horns coming out of her head, long and thick and not what she expected to be there. How strange, she thinks, that the body she's in barely feels like her own. She's certainly alive, certainly awake, and yet, every moment feels like a dream.

When she begins to walk, her bare feet crush the sickly grass with little crunches, sink into the wet earth with every step. She shivers, feeling unnerved all over again, and walks a bit faster. The sooner she's away from here, the better.

With only the idea that she needs to get somewhere, accomplish something in mind, she chooses a direction at random and follows it.

Anywhere would be better than this field, where everything feels so dead and dry. The unpleasant feeling is only rising the longer she's surrounded by the fog and ashy grass, so it only makes sense to leave.

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