[The magic dissipates around his limbs, freeing him; and while it proves to make him appear less like a prisoner, Henry isn't dumb enough to think this still isn't the case. While not fluent in spellcraft, he remembers where that shimmering green started and ended, and he has a distinct feeling those are the not-so-figurative bars of his newfound cage.
Henry stands, head craning up to look at the windchimes above. They seem to have a life of their own, and his brow cinches together to pair with his deep, displeased frown. All of this is such a different brand of fantastical than he's used to -- which is saying plenty since he's been stuck in a hellish, untamed dimension for seven years.
He turns to look at her, but he doesn't approach. At least this is a marked improvement over his demeanor at the beach, but there's probably a sense that that is just roiling under the surface, instead.]
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Henry stands, head craning up to look at the windchimes above. They seem to have a life of their own, and his brow cinches together to pair with his deep, displeased frown. All of this is such a different brand of fantastical than he's used to -- which is saying plenty since he's been stuck in a hellish, untamed dimension for seven years.
He turns to look at her, but he doesn't approach. At least this is a marked improvement over his demeanor at the beach, but there's probably a sense that that is just roiling under the surface, instead.]
What are you supposed to be, exactly?