Monandæg Snippets

—–Wylen could feel eight pointy legs seeping into the skin on his cheek making their way up across his eye. His arms would not obey at first, and he suffered the itch of wanting to smack the creature away. Eventually, he managed to raise his fingers out from below himself and sand ran through his still slow to respond digits. Wylen reached his face in what seemed like an extraordinary amount of time and picked up the scorpion from his scalp. Doing so caused the beast to jam the spike on its tail directly into Wylen’s thumb. He only knew this because he saw it happen and could feel the pressure pushing into the bone under his skin.
—–Curious, he rolled to his back and examined the scorpion as it danced furiously in his grip trying to free itself by stabbing into his fingers. Wylen shook his head before placing the creature back onto the sandy ground and watched it scamper off before inspecting the tiny droplets of blood coming from his hand. He sat wondering for a moment. Wylen had a fleeting thought of why it didn’t hurt or if he should be worried about the venom. He watched his hand absently for a moment, yet without pain or any visible changes in his skin’s appearance he laid back down on the sand looking at the brightening sky above. ‘Vega rises,’ he thought.
——Wylen grabbed two handfuls of sand and sat up with legs still outstretched and let the sand run through his fingers to his pant legs below. He turned his hands over, and then over again. ‘What happened to my hands? I don’t remember my hands looking like this,’ Wylen mused. His hands were thick and calloused, dirty and full of old cuts alongside the Scorpion’s barrage. Wylen shook his head and looked around himself at a small tent, a cold pit for fire, a pile of branch wood, and a pack full of something he couldn’t quite make out. Looking the opposite direction Wylen thought he could make out the beginnings to tops of buildings on the horizon, but couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just his eyes playing tricks.
—–A deep thrumming began, quiet and barely noticeable, inside his head making his temples ache. The slight pain turned into an itch that cascaded down to the back of his neck, and he reached up to scratch it. A wet, shallow, horizontal indentation sunk into the back of his neck further than he knew should be possible. ‘What is that? When was that?’ He thought as the itch subsided, and he shook his head before standing and noticing for the first time the desert rags he was wearing.

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