(no subject)
Yuna slumps into the bar, sopping wet and streaked with dirt and mud. Years of posture admonitions from Lulu are giving way under the weight of her sodden sleeves and her staff. There are scratches on her face and her bare upper arms, and she's entirely given up on the smell of singed hair that hangs around her like a cloud.
There's a fixed lack of expression on her face that doesn't give an inch as she drops into a chair. She doesn't order anything, but accepts a cup of tea a waitrat brings her.
Cursed, cursed Thunder Plains.
There's a fixed lack of expression on her face that doesn't give an inch as she drops into a chair. She doesn't order anything, but accepts a cup of tea a waitrat brings her.
Cursed, cursed Thunder Plains.