As Grey drifted several feet into the air, the dry wind of the Whistling Fields brushed against his face. The sunlight that poured over half of his pale features felt almost foreign, as if his skin had grown unaccustomed to warmth itself. He did not know how long he had been unconscious, how long his body had lain dormant beneath the oppressive sands and the eerie silence, but the moment those scorching rays grazed him, a strange heaviness stirred in his chest.
It felt like the first time in ages that he had stood beneath the open sky.
His pallid complexion and strangely colored hair made him appear like someone who had lived far too long in the shadows, a figure half-belonging to the land of the living and half to something else entirely.
'We're… still in the Whistling Fields after all.'
