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Bina staggers to her feet, trying to fight a weird nauseating feeling of thinness and disorientation, as though the whole universe were canted slightly to the left.

The world around her feels frayed, like old fabric, the smells of blood and damp and metal are thin and insubstantial. Ghosts of smells.

Piotyr doesn't like them, and, having crawled out of the bag, sticks near Bina's legs, tail down, ears almost on the floor.