Opening eyes
The Mists swirled and eddied. Gusts and currents brought the foglike aethereal matter into illusions of frantic movement.
He sat like some primal statue. His long coat draped about him, a robe to the beglamoured eye. And in the shifting possibilities, it was a samite robe of purest white at the same time as it was a dusty ebon. His short hair the same hue as the unchanging, everchanging view Isambard gazed upon. This was home. Tyria never had been so. He was a man who moved like drawn silk when he chose to move. He prowled, crouching and inhaling like a predator scenting prey. Oddly, when he sat here within his preferred environment, Isambard tended toward stillness, as if to draw in every breath of the changing potentials to their fullest. In the unchanging Tyrian world, it was he who gusted and eddied, coiling and grasping like a miasma to corrode and corrupt.
It occurred to him that he had perhaps meditated long enough. It was time to effect change again.
How long had he been gazing into the swirling nothing? A minute or two? A year? A century? Time was as meaningless as ideas of stable wholeness here.
Yes.
It was time to check in on others.