[ The first night with roommates, he manages the whole night without alerting them to his... sleeping preferences. He'd stayed up later than the rest, working on his new notebook of observations in the dim light of a candle. When it was time to sleep, finally, he found that the bedding in the alcove of straw, the heat of the Draconae's city, the stagnant air... it made him feel restless. The ground at least had a gentle breeze from under the curtain, and he slept like he used to before joining the Express—with his back against the stones and fitful dreams of drinking with old friends.
The second night, he tries to do the same. Alas, he is tired from waking up too early and staying up too late again, and retires before the others have all returned to the room. When Clive discovers him on the ground in the blind spot behind the stone table, his skin is warm, his pulse skittering rapidly in his veins, but he doesn't stir apart from muttering something unintelligible, about marching and trouble. Come morning, he is still asleep in the alcove, pressed into the corner behind the pillows. The third, he is caught and moved once again, but manages to wake and flee before the rest in the morning, padding out of the room without boots on in hopes that nobody fucking asks him shit about why he keeps trying to sleep on the floor. He's got notes to write, babies to look after, ingredients to gather, spit and blood to trade for a spearhead.
The fourth night though, upon being lifted from the floor, he startles mid-dream of something that Dan Feng did. From the depths of the ancient sea, heavy roots of a divine tree begin to press against his sides, dig into his shoulder, to try and drag him one way or another, and eventually up into the sky towards the cracked shape of that thing—he has no way of knowing that it is just Clive, trying to be kind. That it isn't an abomination trying to drag him back into the darkness.
Clive will find a very wet hand slapped against his chest as all of the moisture in the room collects in a deep sea creature's attempt to blast him away by force; at most the water might manage to unsteady him for a step or two, but no more—the air inside the volcano is simply too dry. A flame will struggle to light a paper that has been soaked in seawater, and vice versa for a wave to crash its way through a desert without an ocean to feed on. The real concern is the amount of force behind the hand itself as Dan Heng tries to free himself—Vidyadhara have deceptively delicate frames for the amount of inhuman force they can manage to apply. Even Xianzhou natives, with all their stamina and durability granted to them by their celestial nature, have a hard time keeping up with the dragon people from the depths of the ancient sea.
Eyes lit up with an inhuman blue light, Dan Heng pedals backwards deeper into the safety of the sleeping alcove, gasping for air in panic. Two, three, four gasps later he realizes what he's just done and slams his hands over his ears, afraid that he's lost his touch so far that he dropped his shapeshifting too somehow in his dreams, and he screws his eyes shut to find the sanctuary of calm with the falling leaves in his mind's eye instead, hiding that unearthly, alien light. His ears are still small, and round, thank the Aeons, and apart from that brief moments of a High Elder's glow, nothing about Dan Heng makes him seem like anything more than just a teenager who has been struggling with a fever all week, and refusing to rest sufficiently despite it. Well, a teenager who can also blast a gallon of water from his palm with barely a gesture. ]
I... Sorry. [ When he next opens them, his eyes are the usual color of dark jade. He looks... miserable. Whatever dream had him so unnerved to try and strike out while still asleep hasn't sunk back to the depths. ] I didn't mean to...
[ He's just not used to sleeping outside the safety of the Archives for so many days in a row at all, anymore. The Express is home, now, and the Trailblaze's blessing of stamina takes the cost of wakefulness in equal measure. ]
in the nether.
The second night, he tries to do the same. Alas, he is tired from waking up too early and staying up too late again, and retires before the others have all returned to the room. When Clive discovers him on the ground in the blind spot behind the stone table, his skin is warm, his pulse skittering rapidly in his veins, but he doesn't stir apart from muttering something unintelligible, about marching and trouble. Come morning, he is still asleep in the alcove, pressed into the corner behind the pillows. The third, he is caught and moved once again, but manages to wake and flee before the rest in the morning, padding out of the room without boots on in hopes that nobody fucking asks him shit about why he keeps trying to sleep on the floor. He's got notes to write, babies to look after, ingredients to gather, spit and blood to trade for a spearhead.
The fourth night though, upon being lifted from the floor, he startles mid-dream of something that Dan Feng did. From the depths of the ancient sea, heavy roots of a divine tree begin to press against his sides, dig into his shoulder, to try and drag him one way or another, and eventually up into the sky towards the cracked shape of that thing—he has no way of knowing that it is just Clive, trying to be kind. That it isn't an abomination trying to drag him back into the darkness.
Clive will find a very wet hand slapped against his chest as all of the moisture in the room collects in a deep sea creature's attempt to blast him away by force; at most the water might manage to unsteady him for a step or two, but no more—the air inside the volcano is simply too dry. A flame will struggle to light a paper that has been soaked in seawater, and vice versa for a wave to crash its way through a desert without an ocean to feed on. The real concern is the amount of force behind the hand itself as Dan Heng tries to free himself—Vidyadhara have deceptively delicate frames for the amount of inhuman force they can manage to apply. Even Xianzhou natives, with all their stamina and durability granted to them by their celestial nature, have a hard time keeping up with the dragon people from the depths of the ancient sea.
Eyes lit up with an inhuman blue light, Dan Heng pedals backwards deeper into the safety of the sleeping alcove, gasping for air in panic. Two, three, four gasps later he realizes what he's just done and slams his hands over his ears, afraid that he's lost his touch so far that he dropped his shapeshifting too somehow in his dreams, and he screws his eyes shut to find the sanctuary of calm with the falling leaves in his mind's eye instead, hiding that unearthly, alien light. His ears are still small, and round, thank the Aeons, and apart from that brief moments of a High Elder's glow, nothing about Dan Heng makes him seem like anything more than just a teenager who has been struggling with a fever all week, and refusing to rest sufficiently despite it. Well, a teenager who can also blast a gallon of water from his palm with barely a gesture. ]
I... Sorry. [ When he next opens them, his eyes are the usual color of dark jade. He looks... miserable. Whatever dream had him so unnerved to try and strike out while still asleep hasn't sunk back to the depths. ] I didn't mean to...
[ He's just not used to sleeping outside the safety of the Archives for so many days in a row at all, anymore. The Express is home, now, and the Trailblaze's blessing of stamina takes the cost of wakefulness in equal measure. ]