This isn't because of the sensation itself, wretched as it may be - rather, it throws Emil's senses off completely, his body gone too busy with his stomach to be properly hearing and smelling everything. That's the worst part for sure, a lurch and then a jumble of nothing discernible, and Emil's left gasping a little, quivery, on his knees and wondering what he's got clenched between his fingers. Come on, come on, clear your head! He tries to find his nerves, his white cheeks evidence of his desperate internal scramble; his face is turned down toward the ground, because he's afraid of accidentally looking at anything in his panic.
But his blindfold is on, he realizes, and that's the first step to getting his bearings. Once he's aware of that safe little strip of cloth, he brings his head up cautiously, and takes in a slow, shaky breath. That's dirt between his fingers. Rich, damp soil. It's making his flannel pajama pants cling to his knees and shins, too.
"What," he murmurs, trailing off, because this surely doesn't make sense at all. And the air smells so clean, and good, too. More like the air from home than the air in Siren's Port, but the dirt underneath him is definitely too rich to be from the Southern Plains... Oh, where could he have got to now? He's not even sure who he should call out for.
First order of business: stand up. He does so, wobbly and still quite white, before stooping a little to awkwardly brush off his knees. The wet earth stuck to his fingers only succeeds in smearing over soft fabric, though. Oh well. Now - second order: find out everything you can. He inhales. Smells like plants... He listens, too, as closely as he can, which is pretty close. There are definitely other people milling around here, buzzing, alarmed, but a little ways away yet. No familiar voices just yet, but at least there are voices, and that's definitely a good start. Weather is pretty chilly, which is another bit of evidence that this won't be the Southern Plains. So, he almost certainly isn't home...
But where does that leave him?
"He - " Ah. Still nauseous. Emil presses the back of his hand to his mouth for a moment, steadying himself, and then clears his throat and calls out, strong as possible, "Hello?"
He's the very picture of a lost child, and he feels terrible.
open
This isn't because of the sensation itself, wretched as it may be - rather, it throws Emil's senses off completely, his body gone too busy with his stomach to be properly hearing and smelling everything. That's the worst part for sure, a lurch and then a jumble of nothing discernible, and Emil's left gasping a little, quivery, on his knees and wondering what he's got clenched between his fingers. Come on, come on, clear your head! He tries to find his nerves, his white cheeks evidence of his desperate internal scramble; his face is turned down toward the ground, because he's afraid of accidentally looking at anything in his panic.
But his blindfold is on, he realizes, and that's the first step to getting his bearings. Once he's aware of that safe little strip of cloth, he brings his head up cautiously, and takes in a slow, shaky breath. That's dirt between his fingers. Rich, damp soil. It's making his flannel pajama pants cling to his knees and shins, too.
"What," he murmurs, trailing off, because this surely doesn't make sense at all. And the air smells so clean, and good, too. More like the air from home than the air in Siren's Port, but the dirt underneath him is definitely too rich to be from the Southern Plains... Oh, where could he have got to now? He's not even sure who he should call out for.
First order of business: stand up. He does so, wobbly and still quite white, before stooping a little to awkwardly brush off his knees. The wet earth stuck to his fingers only succeeds in smearing over soft fabric, though. Oh well. Now - second order: find out everything you can. He inhales. Smells like plants... He listens, too, as closely as he can, which is pretty close. There are definitely other people milling around here, buzzing, alarmed, but a little ways away yet. No familiar voices just yet, but at least there are voices, and that's definitely a good start. Weather is pretty chilly, which is another bit of evidence that this won't be the Southern Plains. So, he almost certainly isn't home...
But where does that leave him?
"He - " Ah. Still nauseous. Emil presses the back of his hand to his mouth for a moment, steadying himself, and then clears his throat and calls out, strong as possible, "Hello?"
He's the very picture of a lost child, and he feels terrible.