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You feel just a damp, cold wet sensation–almost as if someone had run a fresh dead fish across your lips–for just a fraction of a second. The changeling’s features warp and spasm, and not because of her powers–no, her form begins melding into the walls, intermingling with the princess, mixing paint twisting into oblong colors and shapes along the walls of the mindscape.
The feeling of cold wet against your lips begins twisting into your guts and head. The creak of wood against dirt skips and loops like an old record as your master’s shriek cuts into the sonorous beat. You feel that same tugging, pulling sensation–a little more strong now, as if someone was intent to wrest you from this scenario–and you begin crossing into another passing memory.
