( it's a jolting, unpleasant experience and marc's been through more than a handful of those — his first flight in a helicopter, his first jump out of a helicopter. the first time he'd been knocked unconscious and he'd roused, slowly and painfully later, head splitting. hangovers where the mere concept of moving is enough for his stomach and mind to protest.
this is somewhere in between and he throws out his other hand for stability, involuntary and instinctive, same as the groan that escapes his lips. he pulls one hand away abruptly, then the other, the one lottie had clasped as his vision focusses and— god, that was awful.
he doesn't vomit though. he takes a breath, then a second, and runs a grubby hand through his hair, dirty fingers running through loose, equally dirty curls. his gaze is almost accusatory as he mutters a— ) You couldn't have warned me? ( and though there's no-one but lottie it could've been directed at, it's quiet enough, soft enough that it could just be a general remark, a comment to expel just how much he didn't enjoy that.
but then it seems to register, tangibly, that they're not where they were and marc looks up towards the sky and the moons. night — darkness — is a familiarity, the cool illumination of moonlight a constant companion. )
Highstorm? ( he asks, though he doesn't look back to her as he speaks. )
no subject
this is somewhere in between and he throws out his other hand for stability, involuntary and instinctive, same as the groan that escapes his lips. he pulls one hand away abruptly, then the other, the one lottie had clasped as his vision focusses and— god, that was awful.
he doesn't vomit though. he takes a breath, then a second, and runs a grubby hand through his hair, dirty fingers running through loose, equally dirty curls. his gaze is almost accusatory as he mutters a— ) You couldn't have warned me? ( and though there's no-one but lottie it could've been directed at, it's quiet enough, soft enough that it could just be a general remark, a comment to expel just how much he didn't enjoy that.
but then it seems to register, tangibly, that they're not where they were and marc looks up towards the sky and the moons. night — darkness — is a familiarity, the cool illumination of moonlight a constant companion. )
Highstorm? ( he asks, though he doesn't look back to her as he speaks. )