[ It takes an embarrassing amount of time for Claude to remember that instead of continuing a dedicated internal monologue to how terrible this weather is, he could do something about it. So, with Faerghus in mind, his outfit now resembles something... vaguely Faerghan, like the Horizon decided to play a practical joke on him by pulling elements of all of the Blue Lions' outfits somehow, but at least now he has a cloak with a hood, gloves, and better boots that look far more like greaves. Better than freezing, and being less cold means some of those aches from the fall aren't nearly as strong.
The other bonus to the greaves is they make stomping through the snow that much easier now that it's considerably deeper, which means he also gets to where a familiar figure is waiting. Before he can say something, they turn, he recognizes it's Wanda, and her hand is up in a way which seems rather ominous and he stops right where he is. ]
Wanda? [ The wind helpfully picks up then and sprays what feels like ice pellets now into his face which Claude wipes away with a grimace. ] Gods, I hate snow.
[ Wait. Further complaining's not important right now because Wanda looks - he stops to squint through the snow and takes a half-step, then thinks better of it - terrified. He knows what that means. ]
Does it help if I tell you that despite whatever you're seeing, [ because he is thinking now of what he's seen in recent memory, and knows this is rationally not a comfort at all but it seems worth a shot regardless, ] I still look as devastatingly handsome in reality as you remember?
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The other bonus to the greaves is they make stomping through the snow that much easier now that it's considerably deeper, which means he also gets to where a familiar figure is waiting. Before he can say something, they turn, he recognizes it's Wanda, and her hand is up in a way which seems rather ominous and he stops right where he is. ]
Wanda? [ The wind helpfully picks up then and sprays what feels like ice pellets now into his face which Claude wipes away with a grimace. ] Gods, I hate snow.
[ Wait. Further complaining's not important right now because Wanda looks - he stops to squint through the snow and takes a half-step, then thinks better of it - terrified. He knows what that means. ]
Does it help if I tell you that despite whatever you're seeing, [ because he is thinking now of what he's seen in recent memory, and knows this is rationally not a comfort at all but it seems worth a shot regardless, ] I still look as devastatingly handsome in reality as you remember?