[A boy (a young man, more like-- a man's frame, with the awkward, unsure movement of a boy) sits on the ledge of the roof of a skyscraper, peering down at the ant-sized people below. He seems undisturbed by the height, but it's difficult to tell exactly what he's thinking due to the gigantic-brimmed hat perched on his head. Swinging his feet, he stares intently, silent, until he hears someone join him there. You can almost sense him relax. When he speaks, his voice is gentle, light, but clearly perturbed.]
It's too quiet. All those people, and not one of them is there. They're not even spirits, not really. I can't hear them. Everything... echoes. Beeping and whistling, like birds, but wrong.
[His head tilts to the side, revealing a sliver of his face under all that hat-- pale, gaunt, spotted with teenage blemishes. Lank blonde hair hides his sunken eyes.]
Were they always this way? I can't remember...
reality.
[The surface is dark, cold, oppressive. Wrong, by every definition. Not at all the world he remembers. The realization that this is real, and that his world is not, squeezes his heart in his chest. It's a sensation distinctly unfamiliar to him, and a deeply unpleasant one.
But here he stands, staring at the sky, desperately trying to convince himself that any moment now, the heavy black clouds will part, and the Black City will appear above, and he'll know this is all just a terrible dream. Any minute now.]
If this is what it means to be real, then I take it back. I don't think that I want it at all.
Cole | Dragon Age: Inquisition
[A boy (a young man, more like-- a man's frame, with the awkward, unsure movement of a boy) sits on the ledge of the roof of a skyscraper, peering down at the ant-sized people below. He seems undisturbed by the height, but it's difficult to tell exactly what he's thinking due to the gigantic-brimmed hat perched on his head. Swinging his feet, he stares intently, silent, until he hears someone join him there. You can almost sense him relax. When he speaks, his voice is gentle, light, but clearly perturbed.]
It's too quiet. All those people, and not one of them is there. They're not even spirits, not really. I can't hear them. Everything... echoes. Beeping and whistling, like birds, but wrong.
[His head tilts to the side, revealing a sliver of his face under all that hat-- pale, gaunt, spotted with teenage blemishes. Lank blonde hair hides his sunken eyes.]
Were they always this way? I can't remember...
reality.
[The surface is dark, cold, oppressive. Wrong, by every definition. Not at all the world he remembers. The realization that this is real, and that his world is not, squeezes his heart in his chest. It's a sensation distinctly unfamiliar to him, and a deeply unpleasant one.
But here he stands, staring at the sky, desperately trying to convince himself that any moment now, the heavy black clouds will part, and the Black City will appear above, and he'll know this is all just a terrible dream. Any minute now.]
If this is what it means to be real, then I take it back. I don't think that I want it at all.