[Neria is not on the other side. Instead, his mind is immediately in the midst of a thousand searching filaments of consciousness, each one seeming to inhale and exhale thought, a thousand eyes in the darkness, a caustic mist, a fluttering column of bats. Drowning in a color. He finds himself immediately in poessession of words and languages he has never heard before, but they come at the cost of many of his own thoughts, his own words. Reaching for a familiar concept, he will find instead a thought on the slow torsion necessary to sculpt living ribs into decorative shapes. He is being watched. Learned. Digested. ]
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