When the event passes, and he revives, Ryou will find himself already in Dyster, The fog winds thickly through the streets, among the throng of semi-solid figures, hastening to him.
For a moment, the fog hangs in the air, and then, slowly, it coalesces into a figure. The Fog God's shape is unclear and shrouded in the fog from which it formed, but still clearly humanoid: a tall, slender woman with a grey cloak of hair that lifts and shifts in a wind that cannot be felt. Her mouth does not move when she speaks, and the voice still comes from all around, a chorus of whispers.
"My child. My sweet, sweet child. You have suffered so much. You have given so much."
The figure before him does not move, but even so, there is the feeling of a hand caressing his cheek, a touch that is gentle and maternal, even with the chill that it carries.
"You have shown them all My gifts. You have shared the truth with so many. You have shared yourself with so many. Child, I am so proud of you."
The misty form comes closer - not walking, but gliding - and opens its arms to him, but it is not arms that embrace the Shade. The whole world seems to embrace him, the fog closing around him, drawing him in. Tendrils of that fog wrap around him and through him, and where they pass, there is the sensation of electricity, not painful but alive, investing the shadows that make up his body with some new, invigorating power.
"How well you have made them understand! How well you have shared your pain!" The figure withdraws, the fog withdraws - but not all of it. The cloak clings to him, a mirror of the figure's curtain of hair. The Fog's dark, empty eyes hold his, and there is a softness in what can be seen of her expression. "What better priest could I ask for? Go, child, and share My truth with them. Share the pain that they have caused, with My blessing."
There is a wave of applause, strangely muffled in the fog. The Fog herself smiles upon him, and touches his face once more, stroking his cheek, before the shape of her begins to fall apart, and she is gone.
(But never quite gone, not while her cloak still hangs from his shoulders)
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For a moment, the fog hangs in the air, and then, slowly, it coalesces into a figure. The Fog God's shape is unclear and shrouded in the fog from which it formed, but still clearly humanoid: a tall, slender woman with a grey cloak of hair that lifts and shifts in a wind that cannot be felt. Her mouth does not move when she speaks, and the voice still comes from all around, a chorus of whispers.
"My child. My sweet, sweet child. You have suffered so much. You have given so much."
The figure before him does not move, but even so, there is the feeling of a hand caressing his cheek, a touch that is gentle and maternal, even with the chill that it carries.
"You have shown them all My gifts. You have shared the truth with so many. You have shared yourself with so many. Child, I am so proud of you."
The misty form comes closer - not walking, but gliding - and opens its arms to him, but it is not arms that embrace the Shade. The whole world seems to embrace him, the fog closing around him, drawing him in. Tendrils of that fog wrap around him and through him, and where they pass, there is the sensation of electricity, not painful but alive, investing the shadows that make up his body with some new, invigorating power.
"How well you have made them understand! How well you have shared your pain!" The figure withdraws, the fog withdraws - but not all of it. The cloak clings to him, a mirror of the figure's curtain of hair. The Fog's dark, empty eyes hold his, and there is a softness in what can be seen of her expression. "What better priest could I ask for? Go, child, and share My truth with them. Share the pain that they have caused, with My blessing."
There is a wave of applause, strangely muffled in the fog. The Fog herself smiles upon him, and touches his face once more, stroking his cheek, before the shape of her begins to fall apart, and she is gone.
(But never quite gone, not while her cloak still hangs from his shoulders)