He does indeed open the door, closing it behind them to ward of some of the chill that hangs heavy in the air - though it is only just barely warmer within the tiny building than it is outside.
No fire has burned in the hearth in some time, and the layers of dust and dirt that cover every surface show no evidence of being disturbed in many, many years. A draft swirls through the cabin, bringing a small drift of snow inside through a broken window pane on the far wall.
Shivering, he moves towards the mantle, where a rusted (though he can hardly tell for the coating of grime and patina) blade sits, leaned up against the rough-hewn stones.
And then the air stills, and the howling of the wind cuts off abruptly - the room is silent, save for his breathing, which has gone ragged due to the cold that's burning his lungs with each inhalation.
(It feels a bit like he's trapped in a cave or tomb with a decreasing amount of oxygen available, and that reminds him of sitting in the pit beneath the gallows in the middle of Lincoln's town square, waiting for the trapdoor above to open - and his likely hanging to occur.)
Doc swallows roughly, and glances around, looking for a way out. The whiteout outside would be better than this. Anything would be better than this place.
no subject
No fire has burned in the hearth in some time, and the layers of dust and dirt that cover every surface show no evidence of being disturbed in many, many years. A draft swirls through the cabin, bringing a small drift of snow inside through a broken window pane on the far wall.
Shivering, he moves towards the mantle, where a rusted (though he can hardly tell for the coating of grime and patina) blade sits, leaned up against the rough-hewn stones.
And then the air stills, and the howling of the wind cuts off abruptly - the room is silent, save for his breathing, which has gone ragged due to the cold that's burning his lungs with each inhalation.
(It feels a bit like he's trapped in a cave or tomb with a decreasing amount of oxygen available, and that reminds him of sitting in the pit beneath the gallows in the middle of Lincoln's town square, waiting for the trapdoor above to open - and his likely hanging to occur.)
Doc swallows roughly, and glances around, looking for a way out. The whiteout outside would be better than this. Anything would be better than this place.