[no furniture in this cabin for them, as it had not been wanda's intent to build anything but refuge from the storm and focusing what her magic could compound into a fireplace; that was really all that mattered to her. she sits herself down instead in front of the fire, her jacket and shawl around her, the snow in her boots melting from the proximity of the hearth.
their outfits here in the horizon are a clear dissonance of the worlds they come from, the cultures and modernity of their worlds.
wanda hugs at her knees, looking him over as he speaks and gives her some context about the weather in his world. that's of less relevance, as it were, as she's drawn instead by what he speaksβof the faces he's been seeing. she reaches with her hand up at him, tugs at his sleeve (too afraid to touch his hand, lest it causes some kind of reaction with her own illusions), so that he may sit beside her.]
Perhaps the thought of them brought you protection from the cold. [but they've died, and that's never a kind truth to share.] I'm sorry.
[the wind picks up outside, a shrill sound that could be mistaken for the cries of someone. storms like these can play tricks with their minds, especially when confined to a space where the light of the fire helps create shadows in every other corner of the place, as the light outside ducks behind the mountain's slopes.
should they stop to listen, past the crackling of the wood in the fireplace and the snowstorm, they might hear itβthe crunch of snow outside, faint, but growing louder.]
no subject
their outfits here in the horizon are a clear dissonance of the worlds they come from, the cultures and modernity of their worlds.
wanda hugs at her knees, looking him over as he speaks and gives her some context about the weather in his world. that's of less relevance, as it were, as she's drawn instead by what he speaksβof the faces he's been seeing. she reaches with her hand up at him, tugs at his sleeve (too afraid to touch his hand, lest it causes some kind of reaction with her own illusions), so that he may sit beside her.]
Perhaps the thought of them brought you protection from the cold. [but they've died, and that's never a kind truth to share.] I'm sorry.
[the wind picks up outside, a shrill sound that could be mistaken for the cries of someone. storms like these can play tricks with their minds, especially when confined to a space where the light of the fire helps create shadows in every other corner of the place, as the light outside ducks behind the mountain's slopes.
should they stop to listen, past the crackling of the wood in the fireplace and the snowstorm, they might hear itβthe crunch of snow outside, faint, but growing louder.]