By the shore of the frigid ocean, a clump of seaweeds shivered pitifully under the colourless light. It was as if they had been stirred by the wind - but it would be important to mention there was none. The force animating this putrid Bolognese was far more fragile, incomprehensible and arguably more frightening: Life. As it quivered like a babe left behind too early, it found that this life was presently more struggle than it was worth.
It choked on the air in its lungs. Cold. Too cold. Cold. Its insides curled with hunger. Food. I need- Against its better judgement, it continued to breathe. A heart slowed to stability as the body became familiar with its own rhythm. I used to be more than this. But what had it been? What was it now? It had woken up from a pleasant dream, one it could not recall.
Sharp stones dug into its tissue as it twisted upwards, and the creature fell backwards with a gasp-gurgle. A new nervous system pleaded for the sensation to stop, and screamed when it attempted the fruitless task again. It did not collapse a second time, letting the pain flow out of it with a long, low groan. It felt its chest reverberate pleasantly with the noise, and decided to focus on that instead.
Soon it wasn't just the stones that took advantage of its fragility. The air itself seemed to bite and snap at its flesh, the pale light piercing its eyes. It could not blink yet, and it shrunk back against the assault. It seemed that this world regarded his existence as fondly as he did. This world? Yes, there had been more. How many? Too many.
A gust of wind ripped the train of thought away from it, forcing it to fold within itself in a desperate attempt to protect what little warmth it had. It had never been alive before, it knew there was little procedure to the act. The arctic seemed to gleefully snatch what little sense it could gather, so it did only what it was compelled to do: Walk.
It felt as though its mind had been split in two as it watched itself begin to limp forward. The decision had been made for it where it was unable, and it was currently incapable of reflecting on how comfortable it was with that fact. He felt black blood worm its way through him, a peculiar tickle at his outer layers as he felt the nerves sink further back; Or rather, as its skin began to grow further from them. It carved itself from its own clay, a patchwork of shimmering black and matte white - to a distant observer, it might've seemed like he was being unmade instead. The silhouette of its form began to blend with its surroundings as it continued forward, with no real goal.
The Realm was beginning to claim it as its own, and it knew there was no going back.
[ ooc: he walkin'....... open to anything. it is presently vulnerable. ]