The good news is that Foster really does fit inside.
A good portion of that is the glamour, most likely, but if he were the complaining type, he could very honestly say he's not as comfortable as he might look. Horses aren't small animals. Neither are bears. The boundaries of the glamour spell contain his physical mass for outsiders' benefit, but Foster himself feels squeezed and contorted, with no clear definition--mentally or physically--to where his limbs actually are, let alone his torso or how his skeleton accommodated this space.
It is simultaneously quite painful and fully desensitising, and Foster is effectively suspended between the two, which is about as close as he's ever come to realising the physical equivalent of his regular mental state.
He feels like he can't breathe. Or maybe he doesn't need to? His lungs aren't there--how many lungs did he even have? Maybe it didn't matter, because they were rotting now, rotten now--decomposing, decaying, dissolving into a frothing mass of blood and pus and autolytic fluid, there's no need for breath now, only...!
Without a word, he slides down and sits on the floor.
That's... a little better.
"Magic," he says, both facetiously and by way of explanation.
TW: graphic.... rot? Foster please use your AC points to buy some chill.
A good portion of that is the glamour, most likely, but if he were the complaining type, he could very honestly say he's not as comfortable as he might look. Horses aren't small animals. Neither are bears. The boundaries of the glamour spell contain his physical mass for outsiders' benefit, but Foster himself feels squeezed and contorted, with no clear definition--mentally or physically--to where his limbs actually are, let alone his torso or how his skeleton accommodated this space.
It is simultaneously quite painful and fully desensitising, and Foster is effectively suspended between the two, which is about as close as he's ever come to realising the physical equivalent of his regular mental state.
He feels like he can't breathe. Or maybe he doesn't need to? His lungs aren't there--how many lungs did he even have? Maybe it didn't matter, because they were rotting now, rotten now--decomposing, decaying, dissolving into a frothing mass of blood and pus and autolytic fluid, there's no need for breath now, only...!
Without a word, he slides down and sits on the floor.
That's... a little better.
"Magic," he says, both facetiously and by way of explanation.