[ In this room there is a desk; seated at the desk is a blanket babushka. It’s upright at an odd, leaning angle, lax through the shoulders, with a pen or a quill or whatever people use in this universe bleeding ink out into an otherwise clean scrap of parchment.
The babushka jolts at the thud of Loxley’s supplies, the pen clatters from his fingers, Richard Dickerson’s mug craned bleary and wild-eyed into a look over his shoulder. ]
HHhfh, [ he breathes forcefully out through his teeth, exasperation quick to overtake fight or flight. Rather than chide, he looks to Loxley and his dinner, with a weary glance for the burned out stump of the candle on the desk. What year is it? ]
no subject
The babushka jolts at the thud of Loxley’s supplies, the pen clatters from his fingers, Richard Dickerson’s mug craned bleary and wild-eyed into a look over his shoulder. ]
HHhfh, [ he breathes forcefully out through his teeth, exasperation quick to overtake fight or flight. Rather than chide, he looks to Loxley and his dinner, with a weary glance for the burned out stump of the candle on the desk. What year is it? ]
What's wrong?