[ the first thing fig smells is the sugar. even from the pastries long demolished by the other being in the room with him, the scent lingers on wickedly curling lips, on slender fingertips that look just a little too sharp if your eyes aren't focused enough. it makes fig's stomach curl; he'd never been very particular to sweets, even now with a tongue that can actually appreciate it.
the second thing fig smells is the magic. not an entirely unpleasant smell, though he's lived and died enough times to know that that doesn't really mean much. thick and pungent and a little piquant, his nose wrinkles from the way it lingers and clings. were he not afraid doing so might fully explode his pounding head, he might have tried a sneeze or two to clear it.
warily, he eyes the source of the magic from beneath his blanket haven. ]
...I'll pass.
[ his head feels like someone cleaved it two with the wrong side of a rusty axe, but even then he's still got enough of his wits about him to know that agreeing to that would be the second stupidest thing he's ever done in his all his lives.
(what's the first, you ask? he doesn't actually remember. but there's enough lingering dread from whatever it was that he knows nothing he can ever do in this</> life could ever possibly compare.)
he sits up, pulling on the blankets so that they more or less come up with him in a pretty uncanny imitation of a tent. ]
Where am I? [ a pause. ] Or is getting that answered gonna cost me too?
hope this is ok! lmk if it's too godmoddy u_u
the second thing fig smells is the magic. not an entirely unpleasant smell, though he's lived and died enough times to know that that doesn't really mean much. thick and pungent and a little piquant, his nose wrinkles from the way it lingers and clings. were he not afraid doing so might fully explode his pounding head, he might have tried a sneeze or two to clear it.
warily, he eyes the source of the magic from beneath his blanket haven. ]
...I'll pass.
[ his head feels like someone cleaved it two with the wrong side of a rusty axe, but even then he's still got enough of his wits about him to know that agreeing to that would be the second stupidest thing he's ever done in his all his lives.
(what's the first, you ask? he doesn't actually remember. but there's enough lingering dread from whatever it was that he knows nothing he can ever do in this</> life could ever possibly compare.)
he sits up, pulling on the blankets so that they more or less come up with him in a pretty uncanny imitation of a tent. ]
Where am I? [ a pause. ] Or is getting that answered gonna cost me too?