[ Most people would figure it to be a sort of illusion, but not Birdie, no. Magic is magic and magic does as it wills to, and who is the little baby phoenix to contradict it? It's hard to accept magic would choose her to come here when she's looking for the Stars to free magic from its prison. So, it's hard for her to understand why would people be so opposed to it, or more, why people would not believe that this right here is real.
Dressed with too many layers (you could throw a punch at her and you would probably think you were punching a pillow) because, sheesh, that cold did not suit well with a firebird. Fortunately the Queen had been gentle enough to provide warmer clothes and Birdie had taken them all, from the big fluffy sweater over about four layers of thinner shirts, to the scarves and ear warmers and a big beanie to the thick gloves that are a bit too big for her fingers, but keep them warm, so she doesn't complain. The girl tilts her head curiously at the blonde woman walking aimlessly through the Gardens covered in snow, knowing that look: lost, like her - like everyone. But what makes her curious is the fact that she isn't wearing as much as Birdie and she wonders if she's warm, if she's cold.
From up there, the tree she has been sitting on, she looks down and blinks slowly, looking like the little curious bird she is, making a little curious noise that may or may not make Juliet look up to see a pale-haired girl dangling from the tree. ]
[ She's cold. She's hallucinating. It's like in that movie: do you think it's air your breathing? Do you think it's the temperature that makes it cold? It's her mind, of course. Inexplicably so. She's always hated cold weather, used to ask her parents if they were moving somewhere warm and pout when she found out they weren't. So why imagine a winter wonderland? Why imagine a garden? Why imagine so many women?
To say nothing of the sound effects. They aren't right at all. You hear a bird chirp and you look up expecting to see a bird, not a bundled-up young woman with no birds in sight.
She shakes her head. Goodwin's side-effects were burns and occasional respiratory difficulties, not hallucinations. ]
So it wasn't the gas.
[ She mutters to herself, not caring if the phrase sounds confusing out of context. It wasn't the gas seeping in to an unsecured mask. It wasn't anything that could explain why she was seeing things that were incongruous to her psychology.
She closes her eyes, tilts her head. Smirks. Why is she trying to make sense of insanity? ]
[ She blinks at those words, not making any sense out of them. She's not quite sure what gas is, either. The girl seems curious, big golden eyes watching Juliet. If she hadn't made that little sound, the woman could probably have felt those eyes on her. ]
Gas, is it, yes, maybe? [ It's a weird way, not very correct, fast, a bit skittish. She's just repeating the word, really, not making a question or offering an answer to this whole situation.
She's safe up there, on the snow-covered branch, so it's okay to be talking, though she is still wary and careful, a bit distrustful. ]
Dressed with too many layers (you could throw a punch at her and you would probably think you were punching a pillow) because, sheesh, that cold did not suit well with a firebird. Fortunately the Queen had been gentle enough to provide warmer clothes and Birdie had taken them all, from the big fluffy sweater over about four layers of thinner shirts, to the scarves and ear warmers and a big beanie to the thick gloves that are a bit too big for her fingers, but keep them warm, so she doesn't complain. The girl tilts her head curiously at the blonde woman walking aimlessly through the Gardens covered in snow, knowing that look: lost, like her - like everyone. But what makes her curious is the fact that she isn't wearing as much as Birdie and she wonders if she's warm, if she's cold.
From up there, the tree she has been sitting on, she looks down and blinks slowly, looking like the little curious bird she is, making a little curious noise that may or may not make Juliet look up to see a pale-haired girl dangling from the tree. ]
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To say nothing of the sound effects. They aren't right at all. You hear a bird chirp and you look up expecting to see a bird, not a bundled-up young woman with no birds in sight.
She shakes her head. Goodwin's side-effects were burns and occasional respiratory difficulties, not hallucinations. ]
So it wasn't the gas.
[ She mutters to herself, not caring if the phrase sounds confusing out of context. It wasn't the gas seeping in to an unsecured mask. It wasn't anything that could explain why she was seeing things that were incongruous to her psychology.
She closes her eyes, tilts her head. Smirks. Why is she trying to make sense of insanity? ]
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Gas, is it, yes, maybe? [ It's a weird way, not very correct, fast, a bit skittish. She's just repeating the word, really, not making a question or offering an answer to this whole situation.
She's safe up there, on the snow-covered branch, so it's okay to be talking, though she is still wary and careful, a bit distrustful. ]
What is it, what? Will you tell me, yes?
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You tell me.
[ She has no idea what she's asking. Is it the gas? Is it a yes? A maybe? Not that Juliet can answer. Answers don't come from insane people. ]
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