The Madgod's Mailbox/Sending Stone

[blindwatchersees]

(Pumpkin Hollow IC inbox)

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[incomingchoppers]

Radar blinks.

Everything ripples weirdly, like the objects around him are too vibrant for one shape to contain them. He thinks he hears cooking -- wait, no, smells. Not hears. Well, hears a little bit, maybe, there's all the regular cooking sounds like bubbling and crackling, but... ohhh he feels funny.

Frowning, he takes off his glasses and tries to clean them on his shirt. Maybe it helps, maybe it doesn't, but when he puts them back on, the uncomfortable oversaturation has dimmed a little. He breathes out a small sigh of relief.

"Whatcha making?" he asks -- then blinks again, touching his fingers to his lips. That felt weird, too.

[blindwatchersees]

"Cream biscuits and gravy," he chirps. "And some steamed carrots, if you're feeling healthy-like."

[incomingchoppers]

Predictably, Radar brightens. "That sounds good."

And stops there, his expression dissolving back into a frown. He rubs his mouth a second time.

Hesitant, he asks, "Are words supposed to taste like that?"

[blindwatchersees]

"Only when your mind's hungry. You'll feel better with a few biscuits, I suspect. Nothing quite makes words stick to the roof of your mouth like going too long without eating."

[incomingchoppers]

Oh, huh. Yeah, that makes sense. Radar chances a nod, even though it makes the rippling come back for a second, and cautiously levers himself to his feet. A couple of the ripples stick to the walls; he tries not to stare at them too much.

As he makes his way toward the food, he whispers, "Was I out long?" Whispering helps. Seems like his tastebuds don't notice the words so much if they're quiet.

(Ohhhhhh this is so weird. It's not too terrible, he supposes, but he really really hopes it's just temporary. He's not gonna get anything done if he's mixed up like this forever.)

[blindwatchersees]

"Could've been an hour, or a second, or some nebulous moment-thing. That's not really important to you right now, is it? Not nearly as important as trying to figure out how to get the greasy slick of a sound from the couch cushions to cleanly rub off your fingertips, eh?"

[incomingchoppers]

"...No, I guess not," he says slowly. He looks down at his hands; rubs his fingertips together. Something sings in the friction-or-lack-thereof, something he'd only half noticed until Sheogorath pointed it out. But now it's really bugging him, enough that he keeps trying to wipe his hands on his pants as he takes a seat in the kitchen, grimacing when the noise strikes at odd angles against the taste in his mouth.

Okay. Breathe. Focus on one thing. Maybe the ripples again? Yeah, that'll help.

[blindwatchersees]

"Here, pour a taste on the sound, and you'll feel like home."

He sets a plate in front of Radar, practically overflowing with biscuits and sausage gravy and those sweet little baby carrots that taste good dipped in just about anything.

[incomingchoppers]

Radar jumps a little at the soft clink of the plate settling on the table. He blinks down at it, running a fingertip along the wake the noise left behind. Luckily, its path collides with the fork right next to the plate, so he doesn't get too distracted and wander away from the food.

He digs in. And oh, good, Sheogorath was right, as soon as that taste hits his mouth it's like someone took the drifting balloon in his head and tied it down to something nice and heavy. Much better! Boy it tastes good, too. When he lets out an appreciative mmmm! and starts shoveling the food in with his usual gusto, the sound tastes a lot more like real stuff than some sour color-motion-thing.