[private] as you can see, i'm pieces of what i used to be
[Black ice, stretching out in front of him: the moon and stars overhead. Light's crouching at the edge of the lake, tracing the frosted surface with one hand. The other is securing his sketchbook on his lap. It looks a precarious arrangement, as if he might wobble or slip - but he's perfectly poised, in no physical danger at all.
He's tried, in the past, to break a hole through the ice, to see if it would heal over - either before his eyes, or when he closed the door behind him. He's never succeeded: the water's frozen inches thick. It wouldn't be at all hard to melt through the ice, he thinks, to see exactly how far down it goes, how deep the water is...
(Bored? Why would anyone ever think that?)
The room is cold: the ice is burning his fingertips, and the jacket that's been wished onto him is the same he always gets. It's more of a token than anything else: a screen of thin black felt between him and something deadly. This is one of the rooms he - favours, let's put it like that: it's usually the place he expects, and it's large enough that he can expect not to run into anybody else, in the cold, and the dark.
He'd prefer not to, just now: the ice inside him has shivered into tangled tendrils, and, slow and painstakingly, he's teasing them back into a semblance of order.]
[[OOC: private to righteous_pen]]
He's tried, in the past, to break a hole through the ice, to see if it would heal over - either before his eyes, or when he closed the door behind him. He's never succeeded: the water's frozen inches thick. It wouldn't be at all hard to melt through the ice, he thinks, to see exactly how far down it goes, how deep the water is...
(Bored? Why would anyone ever think that?)
The room is cold: the ice is burning his fingertips, and the jacket that's been wished onto him is the same he always gets. It's more of a token than anything else: a screen of thin black felt between him and something deadly. This is one of the rooms he - favours, let's put it like that: it's usually the place he expects, and it's large enough that he can expect not to run into anybody else, in the cold, and the dark.
He'd prefer not to, just now: the ice inside him has shivered into tangled tendrils, and, slow and painstakingly, he's teasing them back into a semblance of order.]
[[OOC: private to righteous_pen]]