You have spent the last few days on Thesa Station, taking in the knowledge that your world is no more. Perhaps you've made some friends (or maybe an enemy or two). Either way, you aren't expected to spend all of your time on the Station. El Nysa needs you, after all, and you promised you'd help the planet thrive. Are you ready?
Submit an AC-eligible thread with a new character as a participant for 2 OLYMPIA REP POINTS OR 2 WYVER REP POINTS, respectively, HERE or HERE. THESA STATION
All refugees on the station are called to the hangar where a large-scale teleporter has been set up; everyone will be sent to the planet together. Simply step onto the space between the arrays and wait. Before they depart, all new refugees will be given a starter kit!
 You may have heard about earlier technical difficulties, but don't worry. I promise everything is in perfect working order this time. I'd say I tested it myself, but since that's not exactly possible, you'll just have to trust me! (Please.)
The older refugees will also be there to guide you to ensure no one is left confused... or behind. Make sure you wait for them — I've been detecting something odd so I'll be having them meet you at the landing site. Good luck, refugees! Not that you'll be needing it or anything...
The arrays begin to hum and glow, quickly building into a brilliant wash of light. It creates a column that travels all the way from Thesa Station to the surface of El Nysa. With the night sky as a canvas, the beam can be seen all the way from Olympia and Wyver — a view that has the natives whispering of blessings.
As a sudden but beautiful aurora splays across the sky, the refugees down on the planet receive a message asking them to travel to the landing site — and warning them to prepare for what may come of the strange readings Zasere's gotten from the teleport itself.
Traveling through the light leaves the impression of blinding starlight, a strange sense of weightlessness, and a disorienting moment of total sensory deprivation. The radiance of your teleport hangs bright in the sky above you, a shimmering aurora that reflects off the calm waters below, visible for miles all around.
You've landed on a peninsula to the east of the South Outpost. There's little here — scattered trees on spring-barren plains, with a few overgrown, dilapidated structures poking out of the brush. All is quiet save for the keening of animals and the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. This lonely desolation is hardly the bustling cities and vibrant cultures you were promised back on the station...
BY CAMPFIRE'S GLOW. But waiting for you is a group of your predecessors, and with them, a veritable tent city, with portable stoves, coolers of food and drink, comfortable bedrolls, and cheerful rings of bonfires — all that you need to make merry of the night, courtesy of Overseer Voss, who has, thanks to his interest in blessed meteorological phenomena and refugees, decided to make a holy expedition of the affair.
Settle in, meet new comrades, and enjoy yourself, for you've safely completed your journey. But don't wander too far from the fires — the dark is closing in, and there's a strange, electric feeling in the air, the scent of ozone drifting on the breeze. And what were those odd readings Zasere mentioned?
A SHEPHERD OVER THE FLOCK. The spring sun dawns on a grey morning, already burning away the fog rolling in off the sea. It quickly becomes apparent that Voss and his entourage of acolytes have been up for hours, hard at work. They've set up a brightly-draped stage and a travel pulpit, magically enchanted to amplify his voice, and as the sun breaks over the horizon, Voss is all set to do what he does best: proselytize.
 As our Goddess has sent Her blessing once before to herald the coming of those touched by Her light, so She has done once again! Here you see them, those surrounded by the light of our Goddess, each of them bearing the mark upon their skin of Her holiest of hands! Do you not see? Do none among you bear witness to the righteousness of Her message? Perhaps this is why our people have shamed themselves in front of our Goddess—
[ He continues for another 15 minutes... ]
Nevertheless. See you them before us now! See them as they are, coming to our gates with Her reminder, that these people must be treated with the utmost respect and care. Thesa's divinity is not to be treated with such flagrant disregard! Those who She chooses are not ours to use as mindless fodder, to hurt, to torture — shame upon those who allowed such deeds to shame us under Her watchful gaze!
To those of you who have just arrived here on our doorstep, be not afraid! The Temples of Thesa welcome you to our home with hearts and minds open! Should you ever find yourself in need of solace, seek out the Temples, as there are no greater allies to you than those of us within the Temple walls. You are welcome all to Olympia!
As he steps away from the enchanted podium, he can be heard saying aside to an acolyte, "How was that? Heavy on the shame, but I think it went well!" While he will not leave the area immediately, his acolytes will politely turn away attempts to speak with him and remind anyone interested that they can leave a message at the Temples.
Despite going off without hitch, the new refugees' arrival isn't entirely without incident. It seems that the "blessed" beam of light that brought the refugees down to El Nysa brought something else along with it — a sliver of the Storm. At least the beam was short enough that only a small fraction managed to squeeze through.
But it's enough to wreak a little havoc around the landing site and along the road back toward Olympia and Wyver — and even, for a few days, in the cities themselves.
THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE. The Storm is an undeniably destructive force, and that's proven with this small sliver's effect as it ripples across the continent. While there's no visible sign of its presence, strange phenomena soon begin to appear, corresponding with Zasere's odd readings.
They're innocuous little things at first. A sudden silence, animals going quiet, insects stilling. All technology, no matter how advanced, ceases working. You discover when you check with a friend, the clock on your phone is twelve minutes slow even though you'd swear only a minute had passed — time missing. Walking through the woods takes longer than it should when brushing past one bush leads to brushing past that same bush again — and again, and again, the area looping on itself. It keeps you trapped, going in circles for minutes, even hours, before finally releasing you in a random direction.
Or perhaps you'll feel a sense of deja vu, like you've walked down this road, taken this turn, seen that bird fly from this branch before. This is the second time that cat has crossed your path. The person you're meeting, you already know their name; you're certain you've already met.
WE GOT COWS. The Storm sliver also ushers in sudden, localized weather anomalies — heavy storms, blizzards, strong winds, and more. Affected areas range from just a few feet wide to nearly half a mile. One minute, the sky may be sunny and clear, but the next dark storm clouds roll in, unleashing torrential rain. Small tornadoes surge along the road, kicking up winds strong enough to knock people over and carry objects away. Hail hurtles down from the sky, but only in a ten foot radius. Temperatures fluctuate wildly between one extreme and the next, from heat waves to cold snaps. Soupy fog blankets the area, thick enough that you can barely see your hand in front of your face. Good luck finding your way!
FORGETTING IS SO LONG. The visions come on suddenly and with very little warning. One second, you're carrying on as normal — but the next, you blink and find yourself (and anyone near you) somewhere else completely. You may recognize this place as a moment from the past, one that you lived through. It's a memory, your memory, and it now replays around you in exceptional detail, unnervingly lifelike. Or you may not recognize it at all. It might belong to the person next to you, or to someone else entirely — a memory that the Storm has swallowed up.
Either way, the scene plays out just as it once did, and there's nothing you can do to stop it — or escape it. The memory surrounds you to no end: every door you open leads nowhere, every hallway you turn down continues on forever, every horizon you flee toward hangs just out of reach. And linger too long or turn the wrong corner, and you may find yourself abruptly stuck in a completely different memory. It's almost tempting, then, to give up, to let the past sweep you away...
But this isn't the full might of the Storm. Look closely, and you can see that in the walls of this trap, there are minute, hairline cracks, a facade of fractured glass. Imperfections in the memory where the real world is breaking through. It seems the only way to escape these memories is to find those cracks and break through them — by force, by will, or by some other method entirely.
The time is coming to make a choice — perhaps not a permanent choice, but unless you want to spend the rest of your nights out under the stars, you'll need to pick which city you will initially spend your time in. On the horizon, you will see that people have arrived to help you make that decision...
A FORK IN THE ROAD. Refugees and the hyper-religious wishing to hear Voss speak are not the only ones out and about under the light of the aurora. Citizens of both Olympia and Wyver have flocked to a point on the road midway between the cities and where the refugees have appeared, and they all have the same goal in mind: convincing the newcomers who have just descended in the blessed light of Thesa to come to their city and not the other.
They've come with bribes — that is, examples of what their cities have to offer. If you spent much time at the exhibition up on Thesa Station, you might recognize some of what's being shown off, though the offerings here are markedly more tangible, and shown off by hawkers wearing substantially fewer clothes.
A herd of pegasi accompanies the Olympians, while a line of flying serpents is stabled at a tent bearing Wyver colors. Refugees are given the chance to experience solo flights and are told that if they prove their loyalty, they may have the privilege of owning such fine beasts one day themselves. The Olympians have also brought couture clothing, jewelry, and makeup to offer a taste of Olympian splendor, while the Wyver delegation has brought along fine weapons, sense-enhancing jungle plants, and small vials of diluted dragon’s blood (drinking confers a temporary boost in strength) to demonstrate their might. The Olympians speak proudly of the glory of the Temples of Thesa; the Wyverns speak of the Volkkran Pact and inform newcomers that they can make a pilgrimage to the summit of Namarak Mountain at the next full moon.
This is as good a time as any to compare your plans with others around you and exchange contact information before going your separate ways with people who are going to the city you are not. When you’re ready to go, don’t worry about safe passage — the natives of each city will gladly escort you there in luxury.
OF WHITE AND GOLD. The people of Olympia are ecstatic that you’ve come to join them... So much so that they’ve prepared a grand tour of the city for the new arrivals. You will be introduced to the major businesses in the city, including businesses that they are proud to point out were founded by refugees.
Refugees who have been here for some time already are encouraged to pair up with newcomers to introduce them to the parts of the city they like best. To facilitate this, they’ve made arrangements with many of the business owners: new refugees who visit their shops (and older refugees who escort them) are given discounts!
Just a few examples of many: the Wyvernest offers free desserts to first time visitors with the purchase of a drink, refugees who visit the Silk Wyrms can have one custom (though not exceedingly expensive) outfit made for them for free, and visitors to Shades Darker are offered a half-hour session with one of the prostitutes at half price… or access to a private room, if they seem to have taken a shine to one of their companions on the tour.
Lastly, tour guides will point out that over the course of the next week, the train to Flona Cove will allow new refugees to board for free so that they can experience the seaside for themselves. With the weather finally starting to warm, this is as good a time as any for a visit to the beach, isn’t it?
OF RED AND BLACK. Life in Wyver is typically a sink-or-swim sort of experience — but in light of the valor recently displayed by their predecessors, the natives are now more willing to assist in getting newcomers settled. The entire journey here they have been talking up the virtues of their city… and now is the time to show everything that's on offer.
The well-known businesses in the city are prepared for the influx of newcomers. Some are giving out discounted samples of their products while others are offering a more hands-on experience: in exchange for working a few hours, they will give training in whatever task is being performed.
At the Forged, newcomers can learn the basics of crafting simple weapons (and take one of their successes home), while visitors to spas near the lagoons are trained in the art of massage. Those who wander to Falmi’s Ring can learn the art of pugilism or how to keep (and fix) books if they're more inclined to the gambling that goes on. Newcomers interested in Wyver's dragons can get hands-on experience at the Fields of the Exalted's nursery. While they walk from place to place, a guide may point out a job posting from Highwind Hires, noting that refugees can make a name for themselves outside official channels.
The last stop on the tour is the Undergrowth. The guides speak of the jungle in reverent tones and caution new refugees not to wander too far in. They warn never to explore alone, but also urge refugees to take time to familiarize themselves with it; after all, the jungle is an important part of life in Wyver, and those who are going to be living here should understand it as well as they do.
You've chosen your path, refugee, but that doesn't necessarily make it a permanent one. Watch out for the strange effects of the Storm, which linger still in the two cities and everywhere in between for the next few days before dissipating just as mysteriously as they came, but otherwise enjoy the welcome and make yourself at home — after all, this is home now.
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the boxer | transistor
1. (she shines.)
[As far as memories to wander in on, there's something quietly ordinary about this one. It's a theater. The air is dark and a little smokey, lit with golden light at the wide stage in the distance where a woman sings. Voice clear and powerful. And the audience is rapt, adores her. None so much as the man standing backstage, leaning against a wall by the edge of the lights and watching her intently. Closer than he should be, maybe, to the stage. But he can't find it in him to care, much.
This night, this time, it's just a show. Just any other night. Remarkable only in that they'll never have that kind of thing again, not in the same ways, or the same places. And it hits him harder than he expects. To hear her sing one more time.
And he spends...maybe a little too long, just watching. Quiet and still, an intent but unreadable expression on his face, and that strange, blue blade still set down to lean on the wall, next to his feet. It's not an uncomfortable memory—just the opposite, really. There's little danger to be had in it, little deep dark secrets ready to be revealed. (...But there's something dangerous about how easy it is to stay, just another song, just a few more seconds.)
So maybe it's a good thing his attention isn't too taken to realize when he's not alone. And anyone who doesn't read Cloudbank enough to him gets a firm hand on the shoulder before they happen too close to the reach of the spotlights, or the dark maze of the backstage Set. And, after a beat, a reluctant little jerk of his head away from the stage, easier than trying to be heard over the swelling music. If there's a way out...it's probably not that way.]
2. (old friends.)
[Or, one finds themselves alone in an abandoned alleyway on the water. Nighttime in the city, somewhere empty and quiet, save for the rapid flashing of light from nearby. Coming, it seems, from the long, strange, green-blue blade embedded deep and fatally into the still and lifeless body of the man slumped into the ground. Flickering frenetically with light in time to the faint filtered voice that echoes out of it. A breathless, desperate litany that comes into earshot as one gets closer.
"Red, where are you? Where are you, where are you... Don't be gone, please don't be gone, I can't— I'm here. I'm over here, I'm over here, I'm... still here. Look if she's hurt, if she's hurt I'll... I'll what. I'll what...? I'll nothing. Stuck. I'm stuck. Inside— Am I...inside that thing? Inside it. What is all this, there's nothing— ...Nothing."
A beat of quiet. Then, a little steadier—
"...No... Wait. I'm okay... I think? I'm okay, I'm... Still here. So it could be worse! It could be worse... But where is she? Where is she, where is she, where is she. Where are you. You were there, you were right there, you and me both. We just... Come on, just— Where'd you go, where did you go..."
Get close enough to catch its (his) attention during any part of this, and the rattled rambling voice stops to call out in hushed and breathless hope. Pitched to carry, this time. Hi.]
Hey! That you?
3. (moving out to the country. - closed to existing cr.)
[Wherever this is, it sure isn't El Nysa. Or Cloudbank, for that matter. There are fields of golden wheat as far as the eye can see. Dirt under one's feet. The air is calm, and comfortable, and quiet. If...eerily so. Like despite the placid fields and the crisp air, there isn't a single living soul around to inhabit it. No birdsong, no buzzing insects. Nothing. For miles and miles.
Closer examination finds that the sky above is reddish and roiling with stormclouds. Lightning flashing in fractured, circuitboard flashes. Looking up with enough focus finds something there, in the sky. Every now and then the sky parts. There are images, there and gone like a thunderclap. Nightmare flashes of a broken tower, something huge and white and red and angry, sounds of furious battle. A woman, with bright red hair and a torn golden gown. What can be made out seems... Distant. Far away. There's a sense, somehow...that you could almost (almost) reach out far enough, once, that it could seem close enough to touch. (But only almost.) But now it's gotten faint, and flickery, and gone, and even thinking at all might seem to take a little more effort than necessary. Like there's something in the air that's slowing you down. Ringing persistent static through your bones, the air in your lungs, the space between your eyes.
Or...not.
Either way, somewhere in the great wide empty, stark against the grass, is a man. A dark blot against the slow shifting sea of gold. Bent in on himself and scrubbing a hand over his eyes as if in pain, or disorientation. Which doesn't clear at first, when he looks up to see someone—anyone—here with him. The moment he does, he stutters to a stunned stop. (Because this is definitely, definitely, not how it's supposed to be.) Kneejerk, something hushed and horrified and heartbroken, for the heartbeat it takes for anything to make sense again—]
Oh no...
WHITE AND GOLD
4. FLONA COVE. (the not-drama option, I swear.)
[Inconvenience aside, all the flashbacking does have a way of making one nostalgic. And if there's one thing he misses most about his old place in Cloudbank...it's living down by the water. So he's had his eye on visiting the shore almost as long as he'd been in Olympia to hear about it. And as nice and as bracing as it can be to walk the crowded boardwalks and all, there's still a few things that fail to stand. So, leaning on a rail near a dockside bar with the Transistor propped up beside him and watching the patrons picking at their drinks and their fancy barfood, he happens to remark in grave disappointment and (mock) despair—]
This...is a travesty. I don't think I want to live in a place like this, anymore.
[What the hell is he even going on about.]
(ETC as always this is Very Long and most of it is incomprehensible High Drama so if nothing here works for you I 100% encourage wildcards (esp for memshare stuff, please give me your favorite canon bits, I love this.) I'll be tagging out soon for other stuff too but feel free to hit me up to request something more specific and I'll type it up for you instead!)
2
There must be a reason she's here. Some memory, some reason . . . and sure enough, a desperate voice reaches her ears.
Red, he says, and she wonders if he means her. Heaven knows people tend to use nicknames liberally around her.]
I'm someone, anyway.
[She wrinkles her nose. A corpse isn't intimidating, but it's not pleasant to stumble across. But oh . . . that's interesting, isn't it? The voice seems to be coming from the sword, and not only that, but it seems conscious. That's new.]
Who are you? Can you see me, or simply hear me?
no subject
(Look at you, he wants to say. You're alive. Me, I'm not so sure—)
But...no. The light in the blade flickers, for a moment, once Rosalind comes into view. It's an oddly human gesture, in its own way. As if blinking in surprise. And the dissonance, it seems, is just enough to start to rattle him out of it.]
Oh. [Oh. Reality tries its damndest to crash in, though it sure doesn't help with the surreality And the voice is, indeed, coming from the blade. Modulated, as the light in it flashes in time with the words.] I thought—
[Well, it doesn't matter what he thought. Careful—]
Sorry. I see you. Thought you were— [A beat.] ...someone else.
[Not to mention somewhen. Somewhere. This is Cloudbank, no mistake. But it can't be. Not Cloudbank the way the Storm would have left it, if you believe the powers that be. Not even the way he'd last seen it, even if you didn't. Not after the Process were through with it. He casts about for his bearings and lands on one solid observation, at least. So, the understatement of the month—]
...We really shouldn't be here.
no subject
[She can't tell if the sword is part of the fantasy or not. She can't see anyone else around, so he's (he? it?) her best bet. Her eyes flickers down to the corpse, and then she reaches for the sword, wrapping her fingers hesitantly around the handle.]
What's your name?
no subject
Good question. I know where we are, but—
[Well. Where they're going is another matter entirely. But they got here somehow. So it stands to reason there's got to be a way back.]
Can't see much from here. [Which she seems to understand, given the way she's reached out for the Transistor. The logical progression of what needs doing, here. Still, his tone edges to apologetic.] ...Could use a hand, if you're going my way.
[She seems like a steady enough type. So, yes, he is definitely asking to get yanked out of the corpse (his corpse. Or at least...the memory of it,) that the blade is currently embedded in so he can tag along. Good thing she doesn't seem the weakwilled sort. (Or...maybe he's just projecting.)]
Sorry. Hate to ask this of you. Miss...?
[He'll get to his own introductions in a second.]
sorry for the delay!!
[She grimaces, but gives the sword one good yank, pulling it out of the corpse with a hideous sort of wet noise. Gross, but soon she's got a good grip on it (two hands, she's not built for strength).]
That isn't an answer to my second question.
np friend I am clearly right there with you, rip us
Boxer's fine. Pleasure's mine, I'm sure.
[Can't be a great introduction. "Hi, nice to meet you. Hope you don't mind pulling me out of my cooling corpse and hauling me around the ghost of my town so we can find our way out before we both get Processed into—" Into what? Is any of this even real, anymore?
He takes a beat to take it in. Then, as if in admission—]
Time for us to skip town, I think. Try heading east, I've got a hunch.
[Not like they've got a lot of choice.]
3, you monster, etc
It's a punch in the gut. The storm causing them to remember all that they have lost, good or bad or whatever. Maybe if it had a creator, she's sure she could hear them laughing through this; yet there's nothing she can do aside from keep moving, in the hopes that it all ends sooner rather than later.
So — Red braces herself for the worst, then flounders at the sight of ... peace. It's not quite clear skies, the flashes of lightning proving that much, but it's eerily quiet. The still air doesn't change, in the few seconds she's been here ( about now, something's supposed to change ). Her eyes gravitate towards the sky, as if it'll have the answers she's looking for.
And it does. Just ... not in a way that she would have liked; it's almost like she can never escape, even if she wanted to. A tower she was once fond of, the heart of a creature on its last legs. Her. Her heart seizes at the realization of where this could be.
( She was supposed to end up here, if all went according to her wishes. )
Her train of thought stops at a voice ( might as well put the nail in the coffin ). Body tensing, a sharp inhale filling her lungs with air despite her best efforts otherwise. Her head whips back to the source, and — it's hard to keep a straight face, for this one.
Hi. ]
don't sass me. also, like 1000 years later, I guess.
(Mirrored in the air above them, Red closes in on the Spine. Static spikes through the sky. And it all just fuzzes away and it fades. Fades.)
His attention, though, is fixed firmly on Red in front of him. Looking queerly torn, he lifts his hands to frame her face. At once reverent and hesitant, hurried and hushed. (Like he hasn't touched her in a lifetime. Like his heart is breaking to see her.)]
Oh, Red. [Breathless, again, like the wind's been knocked out of him. Quiet enough that the still air is all that makes it audible. He should not be so crushed to see her, so knocked wildly off his foundations. But he is unmoored, for another seasick second, drifting somewhere between where the past stops and the present starts. The electromagnetic static of the Storm in the air leaving the lines blurred and buggy as the Transistor struggles to function through it at all. The real thing is there, still—abandoned at his feet in the long grass within the echo of its own unknowable interior.]
Red, what— [There's an awful ache in his voice, no matter how hard he tries to school it. The bone-deep feeling that something is wrong here is reinforced and overshadowed, the need to make sense of it eclipsed and urgent.] What are you doing? You can't be here, you can't— You were...
[Out there. (In Cloudbank, on El Nysa. Both.) Where she should be. Safe.]
as always we're slow together
Which is painfully obvious by the fact that she's in the middle of a wheat field. But where she is hardly matters when he's looking at her like ... that. Painfully vulnerable, at least by his standards — it doesn't take a genius to figure out that her standing here has implications.
Implications she's almost too familiar with by this point, and even more so with every second that ticks forward ( how terribly ironic, some part of her thinks. The part that's not having her heart seize up ). A few more words from Boxer, and she manages to work out the reason for the ( open, obvious, heart-broken ) shock. Except even with those two questions answered, that only serves as the start of many more that she likely won't get answers to.
So— what now?
She swallows, taking a step forward. Closing the distance first and foremost, because she's not nearly heartless enough to stand as Boxer breaks down in front of her. Hearing it was one thing, but seeing is infinite times worse, surprising absolutely no one. She raises her hand in an attempt to reach for his, but halfway through the trajectory changes and she brings it back closer to herself to—
I'm okay. A small price to pay, in order for him to try and — what? Wake up? Snap out of it? Figure out if this is really him, or some strange copy that the Storm has created for her? Her eyebrows knit together for a moment, but her gaze never leaves his. You know this didn't happen. ]
no subject
(All the others—they always do. There for a few seconds of flickery, fading Trace. Just enough time to say hi, ask them a question or two. And then they go quiet, file away to wherever they sleep in here, and he is alone again, and she'd be out of his reach for good, this time.)
Only...it's never like this. She is solid and warm and here in front of him. And she isn't leaving, at least not yet. She is moving her hands in a way that he distantly knows he should recognize. Through the static in the air and behind his eyes, and it takes longer than it should, but eventually...he realizes what it means.
This isn't how it happened. They aren't really here.
He takes a breath, shaky and then steadying, cautious and chagrined.]
Okay. Okay. Yeah, I— [Guiltily, he closes his eyes, leans his forehead against her to mumble miserably into her hair. Equal parts breathless relief and mortified realization. Present, now, if sort of slow and seasick and swimmy. Like he's had a few too many down by the canal.] Sorry.
[For what? He hesitates, like he's trying to make sure he doesn't say too much. Settles slowly and ironically on—] ...Really don't think the weather's been agreeing with me.
[The storm has been hell on any electronics the refugees have lying around. Which has been a special kind of inconvenient for the Transistor...and anyone unfortunate enough to rely on it to hang around.]
no subject
Pity doesn't suit them — there's nothing to pity about the situation that they've landed themselves in, and she's not about to disservice Boxer by regretting it, either. But it still ... aches, because it never had to be like this. There's some series of choices she could have made, they could have made, that wouldn't have landed them in this particular scenario, dealing with the aftermath of all that came before.
Red drags her hands around his waist, underneath his jacket. Loops them around until she's holding him closer, a small chuckle to soothe the nerves while they're chest-to-chest. He's far too tall for her to hook her chin on his shoulder, so she makes do with cutting off her vision for the time being. There's a pause, before she starts rubbing gentle circles into his back, in the hopes that it — helps, somehow.
There's not much she can say, and for once ( ha. ), she's not entirely fond of doing either. So she just settles for ... this. Small comforts when they should be figuring out a way out ( if it's like all the other times, they'll be kicked out before long anyway ). In the hopes that it eases the tension in his shoulders, somehow. ]