Syryn was dead, surely, he was dead. Wasn't he? He couldn't breathe. Something was pressing into his gills and cutting off the water supply to them. The mage felt the temperature of his body fluctuate even as cool scaly skin slid across every inch of skin that wasn't covered by cloth.
So he wasn't dead.
Syryn opened his eyes and could see only darkness. He figured that would be the case since he was surrounded and wrapped up like a ball of yarn.
Sounds were muffled but he could hear harsh conversation that sounded like Drevin and Enkansh arguing.
"Dead-"
"-but what if-"
"You can't-"
"Ryn- we can't"
Why wasn't he dead anyway?
"Can't-"
"-try"
"-ave to-"
"No-"
"Get- help"
Syryn wept in his heart. Life was hard.
Hisssssss
The mage heard it right next to his ear.
Ssssryn
