Sorry, Greta. Even in dreams, the Balladeer's mind doesn't leap directly to "attempt suicide" as a possible solution.
He's still looking out the window when the world shifts again, and then he's looking out at a curiously flat landscape. The colors are the first thing that get him - they're strangely simple. The grass is all a single shade of green, and the sky above is a flat expanse of blue. The Balladeer frowns, first at this and then down at his own hands. Yellow, with three uncomfortably large fingers about the same size as his swollen thumb.
"Yeeeeeeah...this is...something." Suppressing a shudder, he turns back to the yellow Greta, whose hair looks like it's transformed into a single mass. "Are you still hurt?"
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He's still looking out the window when the world shifts again, and then he's looking out at a curiously flat landscape. The colors are the first thing that get him - they're strangely simple. The grass is all a single shade of green, and the sky above is a flat expanse of blue. The Balladeer frowns, first at this and then down at his own hands. Yellow, with three uncomfortably large fingers about the same size as his swollen thumb.
"Yeeeeeeah...this is...something." Suppressing a shudder, he turns back to the yellow Greta, whose hair looks like it's transformed into a single mass. "Are you still hurt?"