[ His body tenses, stopping him cold. (Tails) The pressure in his head is enough to make his skull feel like it's splitting. He might be able to keep going anyway, even if his head would throb with every step. However...
Something starts to brew under the surface, a feeling that starts as a bubble before it comes to a full boil. There's sorrow—but more than that fear, so sharp that the pangs in his chest are practically all that keep his heart beating. He knows there's something underneath this, some indistinct, dizzying worry that lives in his dark past. The problem is, he doesn't know what. He doesn't know what, and the vision comes slowly, flickers of something (Brown hair? Blond?) before his eyes, too fleeting to catch.
And then...
Light and color burst like fireworks in front of his eyes, and suddenly he's back in that little inn with a modest bowl of noodles in front of him. A pair of chopsticks flash by and man speaks, confident and regal. "Friend, there was a fly by your bowl."
With a broken noodle hanging from the corner of his mouth, all he can say is:
"That was my meat dish."
It's a memory of little consequence, yet—something about it pierces his heart like a spear. ]
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Something starts to brew under the surface, a feeling that starts as a bubble before it comes to a full boil. There's sorrow—but more than that fear, so sharp that the pangs in his chest are practically all that keep his heart beating. He knows there's something underneath this, some indistinct, dizzying worry that lives in his dark past. The problem is, he doesn't know what. He doesn't know what, and the vision comes slowly, flickers of something (Brown hair? Blond?) before his eyes, too fleeting to catch.
And then...
Light and color burst like fireworks in front of his eyes, and suddenly he's back in that little inn with a modest bowl of noodles in front of him. A pair of chopsticks flash by and man speaks, confident and regal. "Friend, there was a fly by your bowl."
With a broken noodle hanging from the corner of his mouth, all he can say is:
"That was my meat dish."
It's a memory of little consequence, yet—something about it pierces his heart like a spear. ]