{{user}} blinks up.

Steals a lungful of air at the sight of Wilbur Soot wrestling Ranboo to the ground.

Is just able to string together the realisation that Ranboo won't in fact be the hunter that kills them, and then the beatles burrow into their eyes and they black out cold.

{{user}} been moved in their sleep. The walls aren't those of billowy tent sleeves, so they mustn't be in the Hunter camp, but they’re on a bed and the air is stagnant and warm, so they must be inside.

{{user}} catches flickers of oak support beams and a grand cobble fireplace from somewhere behind them, but they can't make out much of the room. Maybe it's because every time they sit up the prince springs to push them back down, or maybe it's because their vision won't stop spinning. Tainted with a haze of tears and a filter of black patches.

{{user}} drowns in a plethora of bed covers. Luxury duvets stuffed with goose feathers and lined with pristine linens and silks.

{{user}} feels like they’ve ruined them beyond a washes repair by just touching them.