Tilted

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Clay remembers when he first turned into his mortal body, an Elf as Humans and Druids called it. He saw how long his hair was, a dirty gold sort of color that that turned an ugly light brown when soaked in water. He saw how slender his hands were. He saw how frail his frame first was.

How small his body first was.

He remembered looking into the still water of a small pond near by. The sight of large green eyes was frightening at first, as it had the slit like pupils of the Enderdragon, the pupils glowed a sickly similar purple like the cursed god of the damned. He noticed how his hair tumbled over his shoulder, and nearly touched the water, it was a weird mix between curls and waves.

He remembered crying for the first time. He never knew how he looked, didn't know how he felt. Colors were an unfamiliar concept to him, and so was hearing. He was nothing more than a Presence, the only thing he felt was the vibrations of everything around him and the always changing temperatures.

He slowly reaches down onto the water, watching as his hand sinks into it. It was cold, and the pale powder underneath it felt rough. He pulls his hand out of the water, looking at how its remains made his hand glisten.

He brushes his hand over his face, it was... wet. His face was now wet, and his hand lost a bit of shine. He also noticed how his face suddenly felt refreshed in the area he rubbed it. He dunks his head into the water, feeling his hair slide up his back and into the water. He held his head underwater till he felt his lungs start to squeeze.

He took a deep breath while under the water, suddenly coughing it back out while breathing back in at the same time.

Hands suddenly pull him out, turning him away from the water, pulling him away from the pale powder. Hands patting at his back, forcing him to cough up the water he swallowed in.

The hands were large, and calloused, spread wide on his back. The same calloused hands helped him get into a sitting position.

When Clay looked at the owner of the hands, his eyes widen. As staring back at him was a face that seemed similar to the Singular being he was able to see in his true form.

"An elf," the man says, it was a pig faced man, black scalara with golden irises on such a brightly pink face. "That would explain why That Spirit suddenly lost it's presence."

Clay couldn't help but look at the piglin, piglins are the one only things you can see Clay. He took note that the piglin's hair was reddish, with pink ends. He honestly didn't care if his Presence disappeared to this Piglin's senses. He can tell that the weaker spirits are heading towards the boarders of his territory.

But as of now, he was concentrated on the Piglin's hair. Small hands, five small sticks were on it, grabbing ahold of the hair. It felt rough, wiry at least, like the odd strings he felt sometimes along the edge of the prairies he'd try exploring and claiming as his territory.

Now that he thought about it...

"Did.. ah... geeeh.... thoo mush.... fowesh?" Clay says, his words slurred and indistinguishable to untrained ears. But to the piglin, he spoke clearly.

"It appears so," the piglin says, after making sure that Clay was fine, as the Elf was still laying on his side. "Do you want to figure things out in your own or stay by my side so I can teach you how to be mortal?"

Clay looked at the piglin, he took in his features. The Piglin wore a ratty, sun bleached green, cloak, with a worn white shirt and torn brown pants. Though, he noticed a strange sling across his chest that seemed to be holding something living, as he saw the slight rising and falling in the sling.