collects_strays | [OOM] qual piuma al vento

"No don't , no –"

The air is thick and sweet. He tastes it first, and then it's full, white light. Voices flare across it, like shadows cross a vaulted ceiling, hymns still haunting frescoed walls.						Time rushes past him, as he stays still. He sees it in sudden bursts, whirlpools that stray aside, movements that ghost across his vision before they're caught up in the current.
	It's in his throat, filling his chest with tingling warmth. The crystal stem is pressed between his fingers, and he lifts it, sips again, and sets it back on the table.				His handsare at his sides. The room is dark, dim lamplight flickers, at a distance. There's something warm in his throat. He knows, you can swallow or you can choke.
		He reaches out, to the edge of the table, to the knife at the shimmering place setting, shadowed edges sewn into the white light, the stitches carelessly frayed.		He's not moving. He doesn't feel pain in his shoulder, doen't feel cloth or cool silver under his fingers. He tries to take a breath, and something cuts against his chest.
			He hears his voice. His own voice. Woven, dark threads More for my sake than yours

Something shimmers at the far end of the table. Like a haze, and then a wink. Wink-wink-wink, lamplight along carved crystal.

"Are we expecting company?"