Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20180615005427/@comment-30014014-20181129042527

Prad's psyche is in pieces, split between worlds. An amusing disposition from the man in the wall's perception, content with leaving him as such. The soup, warm in his hands, feels hostile by the minute. His hand holding the spoon shakes, forcing dripplets down the tray with each attempt to gulp.

His astray phantom turns from Prad, leaving him to his ever lasting misery, his interest lying elsewhere. He phases out of the room, wandering like a nomad ghost, hidden beyond the capacity of one. Where there are undead, there is bound to be a place of chemicals. A laboratory. How ancient would the cocotions be? His curiosity piqued at the thought, yet other relics of the past long beyond the Metaphorical Shift.