[OPEN]

[heirring]

WHO: Wysteria, Marcoulf, Flint, and/or Fitcher & YOU
WHAT: Open log for Wintermarch
WHEN: Now
WHERE: Various
NOTES: Mix of open and closed prompts; some threads closed to first come first serve and/or contain a few different prompts. Want something specific but don't see it here? Hit me up on discord/plurk/PM/the astral plane, and we can figure something out (or just toss me a wildcard starter if that suits your fancy; I'm pretty flexible). Action brackets aokay if you prefer it over prose.

[see comments below for character specific starters]

Comments

[heirring]

If there is any relief to be found in the smothering of the spreading fire, it certainly doesn't show in Wysteria's face. Instead, she hisses and hops from foot to foot, and promptly yanks her leather apron off to toss it promptly over the whole bench - soggy papers, bowl hissing smoke, ash, and all.

Wysteria slaps it all over, adding just smothering the mess to Solas' rather more elegant efforts.

"The fumes," she explains, as if that is any kind of explanation at all.

[dirth]

There's a moment - a tick of a handful of seconds - where it seems as though Solas isn't entirely sure what to do with himself. He's never seen someone react quite like this, but he finds a sort of devilish glee in it, something that makes a smile twitch onto his lips. Ah, he thinks to himself; Rifters. They are a marvel, are they not?

He leans on his staff, sparks of electricity above him prickling. He can almost hear the laughter.

"Yes, so I see." Head tilted, he does little else for a moment before - "Is there something more I can do to help you? What were you attempting?"