Bearclaw Valley of anthedon ◍

A week after being lifted from the well, all he has is sleep—all he is is fragmentary. The dreams do not flow so much as storm. A typhoon of simplistic scenes, of voices, of faces, which he is not yet equipped to translate. Glaucos dreams of the sound of water rushing around him, and the comfort of the depths. The cold, but he has never experienced true cold—not yet.

He is nested between @Ikkalrok the mother and @Astyanax the brother, warm, much too warm for his own comfort. The heat of their too-close bodies makes his mind slip in to darkness. The water evaporates. There is the feeling of the den floor beneath him: coarse, solid, the antithesis of his dreamscape.

Forelimbs spasm one after the other, legs too; he flails like a sea turtle having finally dug its way out of the sand. A breaststroke that ought to carry him back to the cold—but he is unable to coordinate anything. His toes graze something small and wet and as he is drawn out of sleep and in to the waking darkness of the humid den, Glaucos wriggles himself close to his brother, shoving his face against the cold of his twin's little nose.

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Open to anyone that'd be allowed near!