Atticus stands immutable in the thick of the maelstrom, wind whipping his robes around his body and tousling his short hair, but the sea wall itself doesn't touch him. He's close enough to it, though, that when he reaches out to touch it, the water rushes over and between his fingers like wake from a boat.

Maybe two feet away from him in that prison of ocean current, Myr thrashes and struggles like a fish caught on a line, his every effort and propelling himself towards the surface rendered futile as the sea clutches at him and holds him fast; the sea is greedy to keep its victim for itself, to share what it has found with the shadows that prowl ever closer, their low groaning and growling resonating with hunger. Much more of this, Atticus knows, and he will drown; a death from a somniari in the Fade means death in the physical world as well.

The mage's body contorts in painful spasms as the the instinct to breathe finally triumphs over his mind's knowledge that doing so will kill him. Atticus watches. Waits.

There. That's long enough.

Wake up.