» THIS IS THE STORY OF YOUR RED RIGHT ANKLE; AND HOW IT CAME TO MEET YOUR LEG.

[extramuralise]

Who: Edward Little, John Irving, Kate Marsh, Wynonna Earp, + open to other CR drop-ins in need of temporary shelter!
What: STORMED IN (Winterstille).
When: January 24th - 28th, and/or potentially just before / after
Where: The 41 Mackenzie Street cottage
Content Warnings: 'Does one not bring his habits [aboard]?' — which is to say, all of these characters have their own canon and in-game baggage, shared or otherwise, so please label all threads accordingly!

✒︎ how it whispered ❝ Oh, adhere to me⨾ ❞

» ARRIVALS; GETTING WARM; SETTLING IN FOR THE STORM.

---

The bear-beast alone would have been bad enough (and no question, knowing it was out there somewhere made actually preparing for this storm a beast in itself), but at least the looming presence of such a monstrous creature was sure to drive people indoors before the weather really turned.

As it happens, the cabin on 41 Mackenzie Street (home to Lieutenants Little and Irving, and Kate Marsh) is well-kitted out to weather (ha ha) the coming — now imminent — storm that's been circling, or at least as insulated as possible without knowing precisely how bad the storm will be yet. The windows and doors have been protected, reinforced; candles, matchbooks, and oil lanterns abound throughout various parts of the house; there's plenty of firewood, and food to last about a week if needed (which is not to say plenty of food, but hopefully enough to get them by).

So if you're passing by and need some shelter, come in and warm up by the fire! Have some tea, stay for supper! And hopefully you can be on your way again before the snow really begins to come down, or else you may be stuck here for the foreseeable.

✑ For we are bound by symmetry⨾

» FUN AND GAMES?!

---

If you have been trapped here, never fear! There are still ways to keep occupied, especially for those would appreciate a distraction from the concerning colored strings that have mysteriously appeared on everyone's fingers (because seriously, what's that all about? Well, if you know, you know, or maybe you at least have developed a suspicion or two...), because don't you know? Victorians simply adore parlour games, and surely there are even a few old board games lying around that had been left behind back whenever the great Milton exodus occurred.

So, if you're feeling bored and not yet quite up to socializing about the weather (or, again, especially not those threads which seem to be connecting everyone to each other), take your pick! Gotta pass the time somehow, after all.

Blind Man's Bluff—

Blind man's buff is played in a spacious area, such as outdoors or in a large room, in which one player, designated as "It", is blindfolded and feels around attempting to touch the other players without being able to see them, while the other players scatter and try to avoid the person who is "it", hiding in plain sight and sometimes teasing them to influence them to change direction.

Charades—

The basic object of the game is for a player or team of players to act out clues that will allow another player or team to guess a secret word. Most people today are familiar with the basic concept of the game, but there are different ways to play it. During the 1800s, Charades was played very differently from the modern form of the game. Mohr describes this older form of the game as "complex theatricals" and cites Cassell's Book of Sports and Pastimes (1881), which describes players staging a short play with two scenes in which the actors gave their audience clues to the word they were supposed to guess. This is different from the modern form of the game in which a single player mimes words for the other players to guess instead of speaking out loud and uses certain common gestures to help the other players understand the clues, like holding up their fingers to indicate the number of words in a phrase they want the audience to guess or tugging on their ear to let the players know that the answer is something that "sounds like" what they are about to mime. The only props used for the game are some basic household items that might be lying around, such as items of clothing or furniture. From there, it's just a matter of being clever and creative and acting things out. ( Read more about Modern Charades vs Victorian Charades! )

Forfeits—

One person (called "the judge") is chosen to leave the room. All the other players must place a small personal item into a box. This might be an article of jewellery, or an item from the pocket or handbag, or a small item of clothing such as a tie or shoelace. The "judge" is brought back in to the room. They pick up an item and describe it. The owner must identify themselves and pay a forfeit — do something amusing/embarrassing — to win back the item. The judge chooses which forfeit to award the player. If the player fails, or refuses the forfeit, then the judge keeps the item.

( Suggestions for forfeits: sing a song; dance; stand on your head; tell a story; bark like a dog, do jumping jacks, imitate the person on your left, hold your breath for as long as you can; hug the person sitting opposite you; tell everybody something embarrassing that happened to you; walk around the circle backwards; etc! Many and more ideas can also be found here! )

Yes and No/Twenty Questions—

One person picks a person, place, or thing, and commits it to memory (Mount Rushmore, the ocean, an item in the room). They do not tell what this item is but they say, for example, "I'm thinking of something large." The guests are then allowed to ask yes or no questions. "Is it a building?" "No" "Is it an animal" "No." "Is it a monument?" "Yes." "Is it in Europe?" "No" and so on until one person guesses the item correctly. If the person guesses incorrectly the game still ends and the wrong person must chose a new "something." Players should never guess until they are completely sure they know the answer.

... Not to mention other (more modern!) classics such as Truth or Dare, Never Have I Ever, and Two Truths and A Lie (if you can convince your hosts, that is!), or card games, or the much beloved campfire tradition of scary storytelling!

( OOC | Feel free to include in your prompt games that are NOT mentioned here; these are just a few examples, but anything is on the table! If it's a board game, you're welcome to assume your character can find it lying around in a closet or on a shelf somewhere.  )

✒︎ And whatever differences our lives have been⨾

» TEA & FOOD; SHARING CONFIDENCES; OTHERWISE PASSING THE TIME.

---

However long it's been by now, know that there is an ample enough store of tea, biscuits, and sandwich fixings to help keep a person from going too stir-crazy... not to mention a reasonably well-equipped bookshelf, and whatever other elements of personal entertainment the hosts may own, or that a guest may have brought along. Music, radio, handheld TV? Let's not succumb to cabin fever yet here, people!

Or maybe it's finally time to take someone aside and speculate amongst yourselves (or God forbid, even gossip) about the bear-monster, or even the strings... likely you've noticed some very telling colors and/or connections by now between others that you'd like to discuss in private, if not yet necessarily — or maybe exactly that! — with one of the concerned parties yet themselves.

✑ We together make a limb⨾

» WINDING DOWN; CONFRONTING THE UNSPOKEN... (OR NOT).

---

Some people may end up having to shelter overnight, or possibly even more than one night, so make sure you know what your sleeping arrangements will be if it comes down to that. Not a problem, if so; these things happen, and there's a comfortable sofa, plenty of blankets, and (maybe?) even a spare room for guests to avail themselves to.

But let's also circle back a moment, because maybe this will also demand confronting your string situation head on in some way; if you're sharing a room with someone you're connected to, for instance, that's a hard thing to miss, let alone ignore. Maybe it's time to talk about it, or talk about something else that you hope can eventually lead into talking about your threads in a more casual, natural way— if such a thing is even possible.

It could also be that you're struggling to sleep, and find yourself "alone together" with someone else who is experiencing the same problem... offering, again, the ideal moment to confront the connection privately, or else talk around it until you finally build up the courage to address it, talk about it by not talking about it, exactly, or simply avoid the subject at all costs. Ultimately, in the end, that part is up to you... but remember the storm, remember that privacy is hard to come by in such a claustrophobic situation; maybe it's not the worst idea to take advantage of it while you have it.

Comments

[fidior]

[ One of the black-ish threads pulls tauter at his fingertip, though Edward doesn't immediately notice this. It's not that he's ignoring the collection of tethers, but that he tries not to open his mind to them — or push into anyone else's — too much. They're.... personal intimate, each one bleeding right into someone else's spirit.

He doesn't know what the black ones mean. There's a dull grey one now, frayed and flickering, vibrating like a disturbed spider's web after a brush of movement. A knock sounds at the door, hard enough that it startles him a little.

He gets up from where he was sitting (lieutenant's manual in hand, thumbing through pages and trying his hardest to keep concentrating on them) and moves that way. He's a much less severe sight than he normally is: greatcoat hanging on the wall nearby instead of swallowing him up, leaving him in his jumper and some other man's cardigan that he put on over that for warmth. No officer's cap, just messy locks of brown waves, outgrown enough that his right eye is nearly concealed by the bang that hangs over that side.

But he has, noticeably, trimmed back his facial hair a bit, made it neater — muttonchops still thick but not such a mess. Slowly, slowly, he's been trying to clean himself up a bit again. ]

Mr. Drake.

[ He realises with a surprised, but not unwelcoming, exhale. Immediately he's pulling the door open wider; it's cold and getting colder still, outside. ]

Come in—

[ It's only then he realises, catching it out of the corner of his eye, that grey thing that connects him to the boy. Little blinks, surprised and unnerved, takes a step backwards to let the other through. ]

—out of the cold.

[ployboy]

[Tim knows about the threads. And so he's ducked his head, presumably against the chill, the collar of thick jacket (frozen- thawed- refrozen and now borderline ice) held up against his mouth and nose. The longer he can concentrate on the misery of icicles having replaced his bones, the less he's at risk for... oh, but the last time Little was on his mind, it had been because Kate had been so weak because of her gift to the man, something she had been so proud of and that the Lieutenant had easily accepted and--

Tim frowns, and his blue eyes blink against snowfall for the quick moment it takes him to see the man doesn't have a rifle in hand. Or slung over a shoulder.

It must be the first time they direct words to each other like this, without the man having his props of austerity to steer Tim's delinquent ass straight; he wonders what that must be like.

(Tim was never supposed to be a delinquent but he was also never supposed to take up residence in fucking Canada, so-)

-so he does as told. Because Tim's always eager to follow orders and he's again without a master and he's trying...

...to not stare, to not get all emotional again because inside this cabin is warmth, and abandoned card games on coffee tables, and a messy tidiness that Tim can only remember from living under Alfred's roof. Inside the cabin is Spinal Tap (sorry, Wynonna) and the images of sweet vanilla macarons dangling from a path that shines red-red, for a second, before dulling again into gray-red, because everything in Tim's life is now washed gray. And Tim knows he doesn't fit in, not here in this house where there's safety around a fire and no one comes out howling and burned.

He's standing (shivering, really) to one side, head still turned away from Little. A primitive gesture he might recognize: the futile attempt at appeasement. Then Tim breathes (shallowly, sorta) and nods; his mind made up.

He's not here to try to fit in. He just needs--]

Kate was helping at the Community Center earlier. She's not there.

[fidior]

[ Edward waits until he's inside and then steps forwards to close the door shut and secure it locked once more. But not before a quick, anxious glance out of it — and it's not so much the weather that frightens him as what other thing might be lurking out in it. The puff of hot breath and the ripple of a deep-throated growl. No matter that the thing hasn't actually harmed anyone yet; it can. It will. He knows this, like they'd known of Tuunbaq. Something out there wants them dead. The dread is the worst part of it all.

Now he's looking back to Tim with fresh alarm, and looking him over, eyes taking in the boy with a quick sweep. There's relief that he's unharmed, and horror to the thought that he could have been. That chronic stomachache he has seems to coil tighter, and Little's lips purse tightly closed, eyes wide and fretful. He's about to usher Tim closer to the fireplace when he hears the words, and it gives him enough pause for a moment. ]

Miss Marsh? [ She's 'Miss Kate' now in private (which is major progress for him, about as close in familiarity as he can allow. But Miss Marsh when speaking of her to others, as is most polite, of course.) ]

She's returned home. She's here now.

[ Beat, as he realises. ]

You came here looking for her?

[ Out here, in the elements? It does unnerve him for more than one reason, but he's soon enough stepping towards the living room, lifting a hand in gesture to Tim. No matter his discomforts with the young man and his relationship with Kate (oh Little, you don't know the half of it) and his worries about her being bullied by him in some capacity, he still won't cast a cold shoulder to him when Tim is already quite literally so cold. ]

Please, warm yourself. You must be freezing. Would you care for tea, or hot chocolate?

[ployboy]

[The bear, right? That invisible thing that brought him to Milton at all, that-- how would Kate put it? a blessing in disguise or something like that?-- Tim's not sure how he knows the depths of the Lieutenant's wariness. And then he does, because it clicks into place much easier the second time around: he can hear this man without him ever speaking. It's got to be the first time Tim can say he has a deep understanding of any grown-up who's taken up the sport of barking at him, or of any adult in general.

Don't trust any man over thirty, nor should you trust any man who's lived more than thirty lives.

When Little does address Tim, Tim quells a start and only betrays himself with a jerky twitch of his head: more towards the man, but not meeting him entirely.

she's returned home is entirely fucking different thing than her being here now, and it's like finding himself in that nurses' station again as Mrs. Brown wailed because she saw her daughter not dead. An entire goddamn whiplash of raw emotion in half of a goddamn second. None of it necessary.

But some guys just do that, just like their control over actions the rest of them can't wholly master for themselves.

He literally said he came here for Kate, yeah. Not for chocolate.] It's fine.

[But it's cold. Tim follows, knowing he can't refuse the allure of a fire, feeling immensely bad at dragging himself further in with his coat and boots just because this looks like a proper home and Tim's a kid who had a silver-spoon upbringing: of course he knows he's supposed to leave his shit at the door. But it's cold, and Tim's fighting against keeping otherwise chattering teeth from being made obvious.]

But she didn't say she was going to stay here.

[Did something happen?

(It doesn't even register, that maybe she simply just wouldn't tell him.)]

[fidior]

[ Edward still hasn't realised it. Perhaps because he's tried to keep his mind from peering too deeply into those strands, but then, his mind has never been the strongest force within him, and now that Tim's in front of him and speaking and his focus and concern is on the boy who'd just come walking up in the middle of such weather— his heart is what opens wide and wider still.

His heart will be his downfall, someday. Perhaps it already has been. But there it is, opening right up as he opens that literal front door so wide, and there's some sensation of pain as it does. It startles him, like his fingertip's pushed upon some sharp little thing, a pinprick of alarm. 'It's fine,' he's weirdly aware of Tim saying while being just as weirdly aware of the sensation that something's not right. Edward's head turns to stare at him, eyes wide, confused, unsettled.

Flashes of thought, and he doesn't understand what he's picking up on. The blackish thread that's mostly grey on his end flickers again, thrumming as though with vibrations. His mouth parts, but he lacks the words to speak, the question to ask. (Holland March might say What the fuck?)

His head gives a half jerk to the side, as though trying to shake off something, to push his concentration on what Tim's saying aloud. But he's confused in many ways, and frowns as he steps over towards the fire to give it a quick, good stoke. ]

Well, I— this is her home, I hadn't imagined she would have stayed elsewhere.

[ As he speaks, he moves back towards Tim, placing a hand against the small of his back, ushering him closer to the fire. It's the lieutenant in him, the first, insistent. He's seen many, many men fall and rot away to the cold. He never takes it lightly. ]

Please, you must warm yourself. Your hands— [ Fingers, even beneath the protection of gloves, are especially susceptible. The nose, too. Edward's fretful. ]

Did you assume she would stay at the community center again this year? [ It's an understandable assumption, perhaps. Many of them had through the last storm, himself included. He's just... not sure why Tim is asking to it. Tim, whom Edward has only known to seem ill-spirited in Kate's presence. Certainly, they aren't friends. ]

[ployboy]

[He misses Wynonna so all of a sudden that he wonders about calling out for her; dread had at least paired with surprise Stonehenge. Here, as Tim is dutiful and playing at keeping docile, gloves already peeled off and tucked under a pit, he still can't miss how the Lieutenant (first! Lieutenant) looks at him like the unwelcome magic is all his fault. Tim also can't miss the raised yellowing blister at a wrist where he had failed to secure fabric against skin.

'Fine' he had said but how can he be fine when there's no reason for him to be anything to Kate? Surely not even a friend: friends don't bite their tongue to not say a word about the other, friends don't fall out of step when they approach city limits because God forbid they be seen walking together. But she likes kissing him. And keeping him close.

Tim's shrugged off his coat, an overlarge treated canvas hunting... thing. And he's folded the gloves into it, and itself into a lumpy ball. He needs a haircut and now the long hair falls over his face when Tim bends down to let the soggy bundle sit near the fire to dry it out. His boots are left over it. The jacket will get marked and dirty and Tim couldn't care less.

He moves, like a wildcat, ornery and exhaustively combative against an ushering pressure at the small of his back.] Don't.

[(Tim wonders, eyeing Little's roving hands, if he should make a break for it back into the dark white. It would kill him. But it wouldn't treat him like this, like he's a puzzle- fundamentally, yet another plaything to a man who knows nothing except that he wants to be someone's big damn hero.)

It hits Tim that... here he is, fighting a man for... Kate. Who won't mention his name if not under duress. It makes him feel silly, stupid enough that the shock of black connected to Little blips out of sight entirely before returning to plague him- him, who has thrown himself into the act of not giving a flying fuck for over a goddamn year. Who is again being chastised for assuming

like it hasn't saved his life, saved other people's lives

so, so many goddamn times.] --I was already looking for... someone. And then I remembered I hadn't seen her.

[To be fair. A Tim who didn't know, would likely never want to assume that the girl was staying with such stunted lonely men.]

That's it. Guess I found her.

[fidior]

[ Edward's hand pulls back at the request — though firm, he's never quite forceful — but it hovers in the air, almost as though in some attempt to guard the younger man from stepping backwards away from the source of warmth and safety. His own complicated feelings towards Tim aside, Edward feels responsible for every member of this community, and certainly its youths. (Tim could be the age of the ship's boys. And he's just come in from the bitter, growing cold; he's—

—harmed.) Little notices it immediately once those hands are ungloved and Tim's bending down to place his things on the floor. A glimpse of skin the wrong colour, and his eyebrows are lifting to the roof once more as he takes another step forward, towards him, ushering close. ]

Mr. Drake— your hands!

[ He's listening to Tim speak with one part of his mind while the other bustles in a flurry of alarm, unconcerned with swallowing back his own worried thoughts as they flood forth. It kickstarts his heart again, and he's reaching towards him once more, though doesn't actually touch. Still, it's enough to keep him in the boy's personal space like a bodyguard trying to shuffle him along through a crowd. (More insistent now, because once again, he feels a flash of something, of active thought that doesn't belong to him — the idea of running away, escape, and he realises on some deep-down level that Tim is considering the concept.) ]

Let me see your fingers — please. [ Eyes honed in on those hands, his frown tugs deeper, not understanding what's happening but grounded by his concern over what could be a severe situation. ]

Yes, she's here. Up in her room, I imagine. [ Or knows, because he shares a thread with Kate too, one bright and golden and warm. He can tell where she is at any given moment; it's a particular reassurance. He needs to keep up with them, with all of them. ]

Might I ask, what is the nature of your call upon her?

[ployboy]

[--your hands!] It's frostbite. [Not a 3-headed ravenous wolf-god come to seal their fates like one seals a coffin. Tim forces back the scowl, left without the will back up his bark now that the Lieutenant has once again thrown him for a damn loop.

But Tim does shuffle back, hunching shoulders forward, cupping the space of less-tender skin around the bone of his wrist as if safeguarding that burned strip of skin from Little. He remembers Hickey shoving at his broken arm. And while Little is a very different beast, Tim wouldn't know what to do with himself if he ended up- he doesn't know- getting all misty-eyed because he accidentally bumped his hand against the man or something.

The man that's trying to corral him into a corner. Like he's- perturbed or- concerned or-] It's fine. [And Tim thinks he's said that already.

Just like he's already said,] I told you why I was was worried already. I didn't know where she was.

[If he's not careful... but it's a little late to be careful about this, isn't it? He just had to get all antsy and stubborn about it and now he has (what seems to be) mild frostbite and a chip on his shoulder a mile wide.

It's great.

(He also, again, has confirmation that Kate is okay, that his worries are unwarranted. Three cheers for what's shaping up to be a real anxiety disorder.) Tim can't creep farther back without stepping dangerously close to the fire. He considers it. Says, chagrin,]

I'm sorry. For imposing. I'll get out of your hair once the wind dies down again.

["Once" the wind dies down? Golly, look at him being all optimistic.]

cw: introspection on frostbite / amputation / other such unpleasant things

[fidior]

[ The almost nonchalant way he says that — 'it's frostbite' — horrifies Little in fresh ways. If he was trying to maintain some safe, respectful, mental barricade from the black-ish thing that connects him to the boy, it's gone abruptly, walls crumbling down.

In contrast, Edward's reaction is almost extreme. Frostbite isn't a death sentence, and he's seen how it can be treated and reversed if tended to quickly enough, he knows how now, but— he also knows what happens to a human body when it's been eaten into even a little bit; it leaves room for more to dig in, and flesh is so— soft, really, so easy to hurt and rip and destroy and degrade. He is filled with countless ghosts, men screaming in agony, a plea for death's mercy, parts and pieces rotting and falling and having to be cut away — he'd helped hold solid bodies down as they were dug into and made less and less and less.

Eventually, they all became nothing.

Tim's trying to back away from him like a cornered animal, trying to shield his discoloured skin, and Edward stares at him with horror and confusion, not understanding the boy's behaviour, this need to shirk away from him, away from assistance — but does it matter in this moment, whether he can understand him or not? He needs help—

'I told you I was worried already. I didn't know where she was.'

Surprise at that registers in him up under his alarm and bustling, insistent horror. Could it be possible that Tim is seeking out Kate to... check on her? (That's what he's just said, isn't it?) Then it's true, and it does catch him off guard, but only for a moment. Already he's moving again, away from Tim finally but only so that he can fetch items, rushing to the kitchen. There's a clatter as he moves, and then in a flash he's bringing back a small container, a few towels.

The boy's last words didn't slip past him, but Little can't spare a moment to address them aloud — 'sorry, imposing, I'll be out of your hair' — and then Tim might hear thought instead: You most certainly will not! ]

We need to warm your hands. But slowly, carefully. Here— [ He's peeling off one of his many layers, a waistcoat he wears over his jumper, the material thick wool and warm, made warmer due to its proximity to his body, the heat it's been generating. ] Hide them in this for a few moments while I prepare warm water. But take care not to rub them too much against the material, only conceal them.

[ His gaze drops at once downwards, eyes wide and stricken with a sudden thought. It might be that another tub is in order... ] What of your feet?

[ployboy]

[Dude.

It's like watching a turtle skedaddle across the gravel and gleefully back into the pond: Tim hadn't known, or really even considered, that Little could move that fast. He's stunned, mouth agape, even. Because for a moment Tim has to force in a shock of warm air into his lungs.

The voice in his head had sounded like Alfred's.

So here he is: misty-eyed.

Alfred rarely made a ruckus; Tim winces. He finds a seat nearest to the fire and invites himself to it because he doesn't know if he can hear reproach for trying to carry back some materials from the kitchen (which he assumes are for him. so probably like towels and a deep dish of water). If he's going to be a while... he might as well sit.

Little returns and Tim starts talking (talking over the man, a little towards the end there). He takes the coat without a missing a step, the heavy wool never having the chance to touch the floor before it's put to use. Alfred would at least appreciate that.] Just the one hand. I remember now, and I hit the side mirror of a sedan. Guess I rolled up my sleeve instead of fixing the gloves. The frostbite isn't severe. You're supposed to dab to dry up the area. I won't rub. You know, in case there's ice crystals.

[Tim thinks- thawing out is going to hurt.

He has enough material to distract himself through the pain.

He looks down, wiggles his toes. Not that the Lieutenant can see.]

Feet are fine.

[Oh, defrosting is going to hurt. Tim knows. He wonders... and chews his tongue, and then wonders aloud, almost shyly,] Can I get... room-temperature water first. For my wrist. And then I'll dunk it in the warm water. I just. [---] I have this idea that it'll sting less.

[fidior]

[ Edward eyes him worriedly — given how nonchalant Tim has been about his injury so far, he's not entirely sure the boy might be giving him an accurate reading as to the extent of his damages... But it's not as though he can force him to reveal more. He has to trust. So he does — nodding quickly as he continues preparing things, setting them out on the nearby coffee table.

All the while he's listening attentively to what the boy says about frostbite. 'You're supposed to dab to dry up the area.' Ice crystals. His own knowledge of it is very base, but there was something that happened, here— ]

Miss Marsh actually helped me through an incident like this one. [ Speaking of Kate. ] She tended to my hands and feet during last year's storm.

[ Flashes of thought might come through his end of the tether — Little had gone out into the blizzard after Wynonna and then Crozier, who was secluding himself to his ice house back then. It was frightening, returning to the community center and feeling the panic of realisation that his extremities were in such bad condition. Kate had given him medication for the pain — some of her little capsules. That was before she could take physical injury away with a touch of her own hand. ]

I know the way it stings, [ he continues, empathetic as he reaches for a container and pours water into it from where it rests by the fireplace. It's not yet too warm, mostly room-temperature, as Tim requests. Little hesitates, about to reach for Tim's shoulder to hurriedly direct him, but then remembers his kneejerk aversion to the gesture and instead points that way, trying to stay calm. ]

If you'll sit down here, Mr. Drake — then you can place your hand in, comfortably.

[ If he'll acquiesce to that, Edward will go to start heating up more water at the fireplace, letting it warm up — not too hot. The water can't be too hot; this process must be a slow one. ]

If you need something for the pain, I have capsules. [ He adds, brows knit fretfully. Capsules.... pills... He's been marveled by such modern inventions. ]