He looks awful.
Rhys looks like a corpse; in fact, he is one without his soul. Another day delayed, and his greyish-pale, almost-bones body could have given up. He would have faced demise. Reviving him took sacrifice. Now, I'm hoping as I scoop up his soul from inside the jar that their deaths would not be in vain.
Similar to the feeling of holding Frida's memory, it's soft and airy. It glows a yellow brilliance, and as it gets closer to its host, the ball of cloud-like radiance intensifies that it tries to rid itself of my soft grip.
My eyes widen, unsteadily moving left and right to try and keep the cloudy-ball in place so that I can place it on Rhys' chest. It struggles as much as I did to keep it from falling off. I could only breathe in relief when it seeps directly inside of Rhys' chest, disappearing with a trail of mist.
