['Winter is coming' are words that play over in her mind as she stands outside the building in the snow that's far past her ankles at this point. Her furs are a comfort, reminding her ever of her Northern-ness. It was once something she tried to hide, to change.
But here, she knows. Here, her House's words ring ever true. She holds the device up, trying to understand how it works. Her cheeks are rosy, looking around. She isn't lost, but she's hoping she isn't alone.]
I've been locked out-- [Hold your nerve, she thinks to herself.] I didn't realize how late it had gotten.
Is anyone else out here? Has someone else been out here before? [Maybe there's shelter. Maybe someone can take pity on her. Sansa wipes at her nose before brushing back her long, dark strands.
She won't announce what's in a small satchel attached to her wrist, hanging outside the frame. Having already made one foolish mistake today, she doesn't know who else is here. Sansa is willing to share, but she doesn't want someone to take them on her either.]
( two; action )
[She's stopped feeling her toes in search for the warmth of a hearth. But the small cottage on the hill is not too far. One more step, she tells herself. She must keep going, must keep going. It would be too easy to stop, to sit beside a tree and let herself drift off.
But she doesn't. There's a drive that comes inside, to keep going. She cold, her face and feet are frozen, hands stuffed into her cloak as she shuffles through the bitter cold. The determination is too persistent. Her father, her true father, once called it the Wolf's Blood. But it causes her to move quicker, thinking only of the rescue that lays behind those doors.
It is only when she reaches the steps of the porch, the wood cracking at the weight, that she realizes she is not alone. Sansa cannot survive by staying out in the cold for much longer. It is her kindness that she must rely on now, her words, and how to wield them.]
My apologies, [She dips her head as the condensation from her breath rises into the air.] I hadn't know this place was taken.
[It is hard to get her teeth not to chatter, but she tries to look put together despite the snow and frost on her eyebrows and her very blue lips.]
( three; action )
[Death is a shock to the system. People do all sorts of things, she's heard, when they die. It is gruesome and unpleasant, and something she has hoped to never experience-- or at least not until she is old in her bed. It is something Sansa knows too much about already, the grief haunting her from a young age.
But her own? Well coming back from the dead is just as much as a shock. She rises quickly, gasping for breath as her lungs try and work again. It is labored breathing though, slow and steady, and she wheezes each time she inhales as if she cannot get the air into her fast enough. Wide eyes look forward, frightened and confused.
No. No, no, no. This cannot be.
And yet, she can feel the cold beginning to creep over her. The metal table below her is hard, and her nervous system starts to take into account just what she's feeling.
But still she objects, and she tries to voice it. But as much as she dislikes this, nothing comes out. A soft hand touches just beneath her throat. Nothing is there, but still she cannot speak. She does not feel ill, but even as she tries to clear her throat there is no result. All she can do is whisper a wheezy sort of:]
Sansa Stark | ASOIAF
['Winter is coming' are words that play over in her mind as she stands outside the building in the snow that's far past her ankles at this point. Her furs are a comfort, reminding her ever of her Northern-ness. It was once something she tried to hide, to change.
But here, she knows. Here, her House's words ring ever true. She holds the device up, trying to understand how it works. Her cheeks are rosy, looking around. She isn't lost, but she's hoping she isn't alone.]
I've been locked out-- [Hold your nerve, she thinks to herself.] I didn't realize how late it had gotten.
Is anyone else out here? Has someone else been out here before? [Maybe there's shelter. Maybe someone can take pity on her. Sansa wipes at her nose before brushing back her long, dark strands.
She won't announce what's in a small satchel attached to her wrist, hanging outside the frame. Having already made one foolish mistake today, she doesn't know who else is here. Sansa is willing to share, but she doesn't want someone to take them on her either.]
( two; action )
[She's stopped feeling her toes in search for the warmth of a hearth. But the small cottage on the hill is not too far. One more step, she tells herself. She must keep going, must keep going. It would be too easy to stop, to sit beside a tree and let herself drift off.
But she doesn't. There's a drive that comes inside, to keep going. She cold, her face and feet are frozen, hands stuffed into her cloak as she shuffles through the bitter cold. The determination is too persistent. Her father, her true father, once called it the Wolf's Blood. But it causes her to move quicker, thinking only of the rescue that lays behind those doors.
It is only when she reaches the steps of the porch, the wood cracking at the weight, that she realizes she is not alone. Sansa cannot survive by staying out in the cold for much longer. It is her kindness that she must rely on now, her words, and how to wield them.]
My apologies, [She dips her head as the condensation from her breath rises into the air.] I hadn't know this place was taken.
[It is hard to get her teeth not to chatter, but she tries to look put together despite the snow and frost on her eyebrows and her very blue lips.]
( three; action )
[Death is a shock to the system. People do all sorts of things, she's heard, when they die. It is gruesome and unpleasant, and something she has hoped to never experience-- or at least not until she is old in her bed. It is something Sansa knows too much about already, the grief haunting her from a young age.
But her own? Well coming back from the dead is just as much as a shock. She rises quickly, gasping for breath as her lungs try and work again. It is labored breathing though, slow and steady, and she wheezes each time she inhales as if she cannot get the air into her fast enough. Wide eyes look forward, frightened and confused.
No. No, no, no. This cannot be.
And yet, she can feel the cold beginning to creep over her. The metal table below her is hard, and her nervous system starts to take into account just what she's feeling.
But still she objects, and she tries to voice it. But as much as she dislikes this, nothing comes out. A soft hand touches just beneath her throat. Nothing is there, but still she cannot speak. She does not feel ill, but even as she tries to clear her throat there is no result. All she can do is whisper a wheezy sort of:]
Help.