It’s a giant hall of mirrors. But that’s not important right now. I’m trying to think.

I’ve been here too long. It’s all started to get a little muddy. A little foggy. How long do you think I’ve been here? Like… in total?

  Just me, trapped down in the dungeon as whatever strange, hapless gestalt I happen to be. I’ve been in this particular body for a long time. A long time. This might be the longest life I’ve ever had. Maybe it’s even longer than my first life was? How long is a life usually? I don’t really remember. Rubbing my head, I continue to walk as I talk to the slime. It’s just nice to talk while I walk, you know?

She glibbers in response. She knows.

  Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah. I’m not used to being in a body for this long. I’m not used to having my soul settle in and start planting roots into the foundation of a mortal shell. Attaching itself to my bones, to my physical essence and in turn, having it become a part of my own spiritual self. It feels… foggy. I feel foggy.

  The slime bubbles as she crawls along my arm, perhaps for no other reason than simply for the act of doing so. Looking at her goofing around, exploring the world with curious eyes, I notice how the translucent, aquamarine slime has become… foggy.

“Foggy!” she shouts excitedly.

Foggy, I nod.

“Ribbit?” she asks.

“No, that’s a froggy,” I tell her, shaking my head.

“Froggy?” Two soapy, yellow eyes look up my way.

“Froggy,” I repeat.

“Foggy froggy?” she asks and I stop, thinking. A foggy froggy, what does that look like? I guess it looks like a frog but… blobby.

“Blobby froggy?” she asks in fresh excitement.

Stolen story; please report.

I shake my head. “No, the froggy is foggy, not blobby. But the foggy looks blobby.”

  “But blobby froggy is foggy!” she argues and I guess she has a point, it’s hard to argue with that. Sensing that she’s beaten me, she smiles a smug, slime-smile and continues crawling around the exterior of my body, doing whatever it is that she’s doing.

  Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah. I’ve been in this body for too long, for what I’m used to. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like this body. This is probably the best body I’ve ever had. But… it feels weird, you know?

  I feel like a nomad who has been forced to settle down. Even if there’s an exhaustion to always being on the move and even if there’s a certain security in having one set place to belong in the world, something inside of my soul simply still longs for the… the… -

I look down at my metal gauntlets that are scuffed and scratched and nicked and dented and a little dirty too.

  - It still longs for the momentum. The movement. The hopping from one shell to the next. That flowing water keeps me fresh. It keeps me awake, aware. Respawning and being reborn keeps me sharp. I mean, I’m still moving now, but… it’s different, tell you what. Having one body means my patterns of thought aren’t buzzing anymore, they aren’t humming and going wild, lashing out like so many flailing tendrils slapping against the stones, as they sense for something greater. As I sense for something. I’m becoming complacent. Comfortable. I’m not suffering like I need to be suffering. Like I deserve to be. All there is now is me, myself and I. And the slime.

She bubbles happily, glad that I didn’t forget to mention her.

  I turn my head, looking into the large mirror next to myself and I stare at the remnants of a man looking back my way. A suit of battered purple armor filled with bones and whispers. I watch as the free hand of the thing in the mirror lifts itself up to meet my own fingers, both pressing against either side of the glass to meet each other, as if we are both checking to see if the other one is real. The slime goops out of me, pressing herself into the mirror as she sees the reflection of myself. She splats against the glass and starts forming herself into an overlaying smear above my reflection.

I tilt my head, looking at the slimy recreation of a frog’s head, set atop my reflection.

“Ribbit!”

  The man in the mirror laughs, but I just wave him off and hold out my hand to her so that we can keep walking. My body lurches as something stops me. I turn around to look at the slimy hand holding mine, but not letting go of the mirror either. We have to move, come on.

Her goo slides down from the glass, but she still pulls me back towards it. Sighing, I return back to the reflective wall and wonder what it is that she wants. As her body slides down the reflective surface, the curtain of goo dropping to the ground to reveal the man behind it once again, I watch as he stands there, watching me. I listen, as I hear something bubbling below myself. I feel, as a gentle stream of air touches my form. A warm breeze that rises from the abyss, from the very lowest pit of the dungeon, as it continues to rise upwards. I remember this feeling. This kind wind.

It’s warm and it whispers to me. But I don’t know what it wants. I watch as the man in the mirror asks the wind what it wants from him. I watch as he spins around, trying to find the source of the ever-present presence that fills the entire dungeon. The warm, motherly nudge. Like a bird, pushing its chick out of the nest to learn to fly. I listen, as the slime whispers the thoughts of the man in the mirror into my ears.

“See what I see.”

No. No. I turn back to the mirror, even though I don’t want to. I don’t want to see anymore. It’s so exhausting. I miss being a lizard. I miss being a rat. The man in the mirror clutches his eyes, pulling them open as he stares back at me and I really wish that he wouldn’t. Stop looking at me like that. Stop… stop whispering to me like that. Stop telling me things I don’t want to hear.

The wind whispers indifferently, as the gentle stream of an old, soft warmth runs around my body, as it tells me quiet words that I don’t want to hear, as it tells me silent truths in airy breaths, its voice running down the bare nape of my neck as it tells me secrets in a tone so…

So…

Sussurant.