@hell--descended
Looking back in the mirror miles saw white eyes replacing his dark brown ones, skin bleeding black around them. The ripple of some unnamed power nearby had the walrider agitated; the eldritch thing knew the man needed to be protected for it to exist, and it got defensive when it couldn’t discern whether or not something was a threat. Miles tried to ignore it, swallowing down the static and pressing back against the walrider—not that he was strong enough to do anything about it.
The fog rolling in only seems unusual in the way the static behind his eyes crackles, and he can feel the churn of the walrider’s power.
Then the engine dies on him.
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck—“ he leans on the wheel for a minute and then tries desperately to start it again. When it doesn’t he looks almost hopelessly out at the fog—like finding help is going to be easy in this mess. But he grabs his bag, climbs out, and starts walking.
The static grows slowly in pitch, in time with the way he feels the walrider’s power ooze black across his skin he notices, until he stumbles upon the man. Caution makes him slow to a stop a steady distance away. Flickers of memories—flickers of a helping hand and the betrayal that followed—ignite old fears. So he’s wary when he reaches out. “Hello?”
