He had no idea who he was or why he was here. He only knew a few things.
He was a skeleton. He had a bow, and few things bothered to attack him.
But he could do things skeletons couldn't do.
He could break things. Build things. He could think and...
((Yeah I actually made that months ago with a basic size chart, so might as well share it, lol. Ink is s m o l. Canonically because he was technically still a child when he became undead.))
The journey was rough and inelegant. Ink would say that much. At first he was flying atop a mass of shifting black, feeling as though he'd slip through and plummet to an unfortunate end at any second- but then it had started speeding up. He knew he was moving faster, but his head was excruciatingly crowded, unable to focus on any one thing before it closed up around him.
It was dark now, held in an almost solid mass- so much like the sculk yet so different in ways that felt wrong to him- the overbearing weight on his thoughts lessened and he clung to his tail in the tight space.
He could hear rock shattering somewhere nearby, a constant, furious cracking and grinding. He could hear the splashes of magma spilling, felt flashes of heat through the cold sand that undulated beneath him. Scared. The sculk inside him managed.
Ink couldn't help but whimper. He didn't know what was happening anymore than it did. “I'm sorry, Broomie.” He whispered into the dark, still clutching the sculk tail. He twitched the shapes under his skin one more time, feeling more than seeing the cyan pustules pulse in response. It always did so in time with his heartbeat. Oddly comforting that way.
He had no idea how long he was stuck in that black purgatory of noise and shifting sand before it was suddenly gone. He flailed in a moment of panic- only for more sand to catch him. This time, something about it just felt different. More energy. The sculk in him impulsively reached out to grasp at it, but he was already set on his hooves again, blinking at the desolation around him.
Ink.. had no idea what this was. This place.. was flat. The land barely rose up or fell at all, extending endlessly towards a horizon of black. Just.. black. He couldn't tell if he could see the faintest hint of stars in the void that was the sky. The stone itself was all the same, completely unchanging in its flatness, vaguely familiar.
Bedrock, the name came to him from memory. Something that could not be broken through any natural means. Ink got the distinct feeling that he shouldn't be here.. wherever “here” was.
“An eerie view, isn't it?” A ringing, echoing voice startled him, whipping around and. Staring. This wasn't what Withers looked like.
The figure floated like one, though. Glowing. Brilliantly, in fact. His bones were startlingly white and luminous, and the only thing he wore seemed to be a shifting, black robe.. it was the sand. Just sand.
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Ink recognized a tail swinging behind the hanging legs, just as luminous as the rest of the figure except for the long, slightly curved blade at the end. That blade was black, black like the robes made of sand, black like the.. wings. Made of sand.
