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LATE SORRY
gjalla has been there much longer than she should have been—so long that snow has begun to gather along her spine and ears, so long that her nose has dried from cold. periwinkle eyes fix on the stranger with unwavering intensity, and for a while, he only manages to perplex her further.
he wanders. circles himself thin, knees knocking with his pride leaking out of him in visible steam. he is lost. more than that, he is irate. the man proves as much when he shoves his head straight into the snow as if he is an ostrich.
no effort is made to hide the bemused stare she gives him upon her approach.
what are you doing.
