[ The image that blinks onto the network is a little wobbly, as well as hard to make out. The room is dark, and the feeble light of a fire in the hearth isn't soaked up very well by the little camera recording the image. There's another light, a thin, wobbly finger of flame off a candle.
There's an empty chair. An old, faded rug. A fraction of a window. Nothing else.
The image shifts, like the person holding it is adjusting how they sit. Then finally, a voice, a prim English accent; ]
It doesn't feel any warmer in here, honestly. It's going to be a very long night of freezing my bollocks off and getting to live another day to do the same thing all over again.
[ If he's bitter, it's veiled rather well in dry humour. ]
Pressing question, though. What do you see?
[ Ostensibly, reference to the empty room. ]
Because I might be going mad.
THREE: AN UNEXPECTED MEETING
The fire has gone down low, a fistful of embers still burning away, and the heat has long since sapped out of the room. Cautious but unable to be completely quiet -- he can't quite feel his feet enough to be delicate in his foot falls, and the floorboards just creak like so -- Charles approaches the hearth, ducking down to hover a gloved hand over what little warmth there might be.
A poker is taken from beside the hearth, and he pokes at the dwindled remnants of fire, sparks stirring. With any luck, whoever was here last has moved on, and Charles can claim for himself a place to stay for a little while.
Of course, this isn't a place of good fortune.
At the first sign of another presence -- a foot step, a door open, even a voice -- he is on his feet, hand wrapping tighter around metal, eyes guarded, bright, wary.
charles xavier. x-men: movies.
There's an empty chair. An old, faded rug. A fraction of a window. Nothing else.
The image shifts, like the person holding it is adjusting how they sit. Then finally, a voice, a prim English accent; ]
It doesn't feel any warmer in here, honestly. It's going to be a very long night of freezing my bollocks off and getting to live another day to do the same thing all over again.
[ If he's bitter, it's veiled rather well in dry humour. ]
Pressing question, though. What do you see?
[ Ostensibly, reference to the empty room. ]
Because I might be going mad.The fire has gone down low, a fistful of embers still burning away, and the heat has long since sapped out of the room. Cautious but unable to be completely quiet -- he can't quite feel his feet enough to be delicate in his foot falls, and the floorboards just creak like so -- Charles approaches the hearth, ducking down to hover a gloved hand over what little warmth there might be.
A poker is taken from beside the hearth, and he pokes at the dwindled remnants of fire, sparks stirring. With any luck, whoever was here last has moved on, and Charles can claim for himself a place to stay for a little while.
Of course, this isn't a place of good fortune.
At the first sign of another presence -- a foot step, a door open, even a voice -- he is on his feet, hand wrapping tighter around metal, eyes guarded, bright, wary.