[After the water stops, nothing happens for a moment. Then the bathroom door is quietly closed from the inside.
…
Rindo tries his best to wrap the towels around his talons to absorb the moisture, which is only mildly successful; the roots, for the most part, stay waterlogged. Looks like he won't be able to walk around without leaving wet imprints behind. That's not good. He lays the towels to dry on the side of the tub, save for one that he places on the floor to stand on.
Changing clothes is a slow process. There's resistance embedded in every action now. The sharp claws, the leaves, the roots and the tail vine have turned thoughtless, automatic motions into challenges.
It's like struggling up a hill as the ground crumbles apart under his feet. Everything is difficult and he is so tired, a bone-deep exhaustion that has nothing physical, as if he's run out of thoughts and there's nothing left in his head but a gaping void. Perhaps they've all gone down the drain along with the evidence of what he's just done.
Once he's done, he sits still for a few minutes, eyes fixed on some random spot on the wall. Eventually, it occurs to him that he probably should leave the room at some point, so he does.
The door opens and he steps out. He just stands there, his eyes sweeping across the room without really seeing it. He wonders what the next step should be. Should he be here? Should he be anywhere? Probably not.
…Are Gladion and Silvally still there? He wants to stay with them and he wants to never see any other living soul ever again. Or maybe he wants to lie down and sleep for the rest of eternity. He can't tell.]
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…
Rindo tries his best to wrap the towels around his talons to absorb the moisture, which is only mildly successful; the roots, for the most part, stay waterlogged. Looks like he won't be able to walk around without leaving wet imprints behind. That's not good. He lays the towels to dry on the side of the tub, save for one that he places on the floor to stand on.
Changing clothes is a slow process. There's resistance embedded in every action now. The sharp claws, the leaves, the roots and the tail vine have turned thoughtless, automatic motions into challenges.
It's like struggling up a hill as the ground crumbles apart under his feet. Everything is difficult and he is so tired, a bone-deep exhaustion that has nothing physical, as if he's run out of thoughts and there's nothing left in his head but a gaping void. Perhaps they've all gone down the drain along with the evidence of what he's just done.
Once he's done, he sits still for a few minutes, eyes fixed on some random spot on the wall. Eventually, it occurs to him that he probably should leave the room at some point, so he does.
The door opens and he steps out. He just stands there, his eyes sweeping across the room without really seeing it. He wonders what the next step should be. Should he be here? Should he be anywhere? Probably not.
…Are Gladion and Silvally still there? He wants to stay with them and he wants to never see any other living soul ever again. Or maybe he wants to lie down and sleep for the rest of eternity. He can't tell.]