[ Will isn't a stranger to hallucinations, not by a long stretch. And while he's used to them, used to turning a blind eye and focusing his attention elsewhere, it's getting more and more difficult in this tiny, enclosed space of the cabin. At least in the cell he had something to focus all his thoughts on. He had an end goal in that cell, a victory condition: implicate and kill Hannibal.
Here, though, he isn't sure what his goal is. There's no lofty, noble one. Just primal instinct: survive the night and try not to go crazy. Try.
He opts to give the network a go when he starts seeing the wendigo creeping in the corners of his vision. Whenever he glances at the black, antlered figure, it stops moving. Look away and it creeps again, closer and closer. He would consider a staring contest if he were less stable. Right now, though, he knows it's not real. Just a figment of his imagination. An inconvenience. That's if this place doesn't suddenly manifest your thoughts into life, which isn't such an absurd thing to consider with the eerie, uneasy feeling blanketing everything here. ]
Would it be safe to assume that the cold is the only thing that needs worrying about here?
THREE ; action
He felt right at home in this cabin, mostly because it resembled his humble little home. Being surrounded by snow wasn't exactly unfamiliar, either, but the snow here had such a biting, lethal quality to it. It chilled him more than the usual winters he experienced did, and the snowfall and accompanying gusts of wind felt sinister somehow. Will had exactly zero inclination to brave the weather outside now that he had found solace in this shelter, and besides, it was getting to nightfall, anyway. Going outside under these conditions would be a death sentence.
He had managed to start and stoke a fire, and had even managed to find a few blankets tucked away in a drawer, one of which he was now repurposing as a rug in front of the fire, and the other was draped around his shoulders. It was a shame none of the strays were here. Winston, in particular. Huddling for body warmth was a fairly good idea, but he supposed he would have to make do on his own. Perhaps the long winters in his cabin had only been bearable due to the flurry of activity and warmth that all the dogs brought with them.
He fed the fire another log, watching it grow in size as he sat back, steel poker in hand.
Will Graham | Hannibal
[ Will isn't a stranger to hallucinations, not by a long stretch. And while he's used to them, used to turning a blind eye and focusing his attention elsewhere, it's getting more and more difficult in this tiny, enclosed space of the cabin. At least in the cell he had something to focus all his thoughts on. He had an end goal in that cell, a victory condition: implicate and kill Hannibal.
Here, though, he isn't sure what his goal is. There's no lofty, noble one. Just primal instinct: survive the night and try not to go crazy. Try.
He opts to give the network a go when he starts seeing the wendigo creeping in the corners of his vision. Whenever he glances at the black, antlered figure, it stops moving. Look away and it creeps again, closer and closer. He would consider a staring contest if he were less stable. Right now, though, he knows it's not real. Just a figment of his imagination. An inconvenience. That's if this place doesn't suddenly manifest your thoughts into life, which isn't such an absurd thing to consider with the eerie, uneasy feeling blanketing everything here. ]
Would it be safe to assume that the cold is the only thing that needs worrying about here?
THREE ; action
He felt right at home in this cabin, mostly because it resembled his humble little home. Being surrounded by snow wasn't exactly unfamiliar, either, but the snow here had such a biting, lethal quality to it. It chilled him more than the usual winters he experienced did, and the snowfall and accompanying gusts of wind felt sinister somehow. Will had exactly zero inclination to brave the weather outside now that he had found solace in this shelter, and besides, it was getting to nightfall, anyway. Going outside under these conditions would be a death sentence.
He had managed to start and stoke a fire, and had even managed to find a few blankets tucked away in a drawer, one of which he was now repurposing as a rug in front of the fire, and the other was draped around his shoulders. It was a shame none of the strays were here. Winston, in particular. Huddling for body warmth was a fairly good idea, but he supposed he would have to make do on his own. Perhaps the long winters in his cabin had only been bearable due to the flurry of activity and warmth that all the dogs brought with them.
He fed the fire another log, watching it grow in size as he sat back, steel poker in hand.