self-indulgent sad fluff
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You come back to yourself slowly, like hauling yourself out of a warm pool while wearing all your winter clothing. Altered consciousness streams off of you like water. You lose your grip on things as they flow through your fingers: the heft of Jodariel's mask in her hands; the way Rukey's claws scrabble across the ground; the warm rush of pride that blooms in Hedwyn's chest. It all slides away, leaving you slumped over your Book of Rites, spent and cold and alone in your head save the ringing echo of the Voice. Scribes, this never seems to get easier.