The loose fitting silken cloth doesn't impose as much of a difficulty as they would in actual water. It still does a little bit, but the person who has tumbled into this world is an accomplished swimmer. It also helps that it's impossible to drown in the White, although it's still a bad idea to swallow it. Not that the swimmer knows this.

Golden vapor rises from the swimmer; Something they don't notice themselves, too busy swimming in an adrenaline fueled haze, clutching onto a long object in one of their hands as if it's a life raft.

They arrive at the edge of the green coast of rolling hills where they dip into the Still White.They beach themselves and as they do the White clinging to their body hurriedly flows into the ocean.

In one hand, they carry an ornate staff, previously obscured while they were swimming. The other they use to flip themselves over so they're laying on their back, staring up at the black void.

They, or rather, he, breathes heavily; Partially because of the exertion of swimming but mainly because a sense of panic is starting to set in. He pushes himself halfway up and looks around, the grass beneath his hands is the only thing comforting in this moment, the only thing familiar. He grabs onto it tightly and closes his eyes, counting down from ten.

As he opens his eyes, reality has remained unchanged. And although it's not full-on crying, tears do well up in his eyes as a sense of despair flowers in his chest.

He sits on the grassy hill, adjacent to an infinite ocean of White, underneath an infinite sky of Black with not a star in sight.

And as he takes it all in, and the burgeoning sense of dread makes his lungs feel heavy, he lifts his hand and wipes the tears from his eyes with the silky cloth of his sleeve.

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A brittle conviction tinged by anger chains down his despair.

He stands up using the staff, not because he needs to but because it's easier. As he stands, he plants his staff into the earth, raises his arms up to the sky and closes his eyes. His lips dance up and down as he silently utters a prayer.

The prayer done, he slowly lowers his arms until they're back at his side, before opening his eyes. He grabs his staff and turns around to begin his trek through the hills.

His footsteps rustling the grass is the only sound in this otherwise empty world.

—

Below, something stirs, awake or into existence. A curious glance upwards out of its world of White. A sense of reality and difference, a sense of a body born from the absence. It sees all, and it's unsure whether it likes it.

—

As he crests the first hill he sees two things that immediately grab his attention; In the distance, at the end of the green stretch there's a gray surface with a figure laying on it. Between the two of them, peeking up slightly above the hills is a sandstone obelisk.

He doesn't care about the obelisk right now, though it's an odd feature of the land. He quickly moves through the hills with minimal exertion, seemingly used to navigating them with his staff.

As he draws nearer, on top of another hill, he gets a better look at the figure who's laying on her side, clutching her legs to her chest as she sleeps.

He utters his first words since arriving.

"Pauldrons?"

The despair is still there; So is the conviction, a little less brittle now. But now hope too, takes its place in his chest, as he moves to wake her up.

Hope for answers, escape and a shoulder to lean on now that his world has come crashing down.