Post by Katpride on Dec 29, 2021 20:48:17 GMT
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There are few places Lark hasn’t been, at this point. Traveling is kind of part of the job description, if they want to be able to easily get around the globe. It’s exhausting, but also rewarding, in its own way.
Of course, even they don’t have the time or energy to explore every square foot of the entire Earth. That would be much too tedious, and they’ve found a growing hatred of the tedious developing over time. Something, something, growing older, blah, blah, responsibility. Regardless of their feelings, they’re still working on it, so they suppose it doesn’t really matter all that much how they feel about it.
Today is the forest. Today is a very subjective word, in their case, but right now - the right now that they’re visiting, anyways - they are somewhere outside of Millennium, in a forest. It’s quiet, save for the ambient sounds of animals rustling through the snow and the crunch of their own footsteps.
They could probably have chosen a time with better weather to visit this particular location, but the challenge makes it more fun. Gives them an excuse to break out the winter gear.
For a while, they trudge along quietly, admiring the barren trees around them. Snow falls gently, settling in the silver hair peeking out from under the hood of their winter coat. They’re dressed in white, today, blending in with the winter storm. It isn’t their favorite color, but it’s good for traveling unnoticed.
There’s a flash of color through the trees. Curious, they move towards it, footsteps softening until the sound is covered by the wind and the creaking of trees. Closer, they can see a collection of plants, covered in snow. They don’t seem to be native to the area. A garden?
Lark steps out of the trees and into the much more cultivated rows of plants. There’s a greenhouse, with brightly colored plants sheltered from the snow. That must have been what caught their eye.
There’s a house here. Who builds a house this far into the woods? Unless they’ve somehow gotten turned around, this is pretty far from civilization for most people. Whoever lives here probably doesn’t want to be disturbed.
Lark considers the house for another long moment, and then approaches the door. They knock without hesitation, but the sound is barely audible thanks to their gloves and the still-howling wind.
A soft mental ding, a flash of light from within, and the deadbolt slides open. The door opens from the inside, another Lark standing there. They move aside to let their past self in. The Lark outside stomps the snow off of their boots and does their best to brush off their hood and arms before stepping inside.
As expected, it’s nice and warm inside the house. They rewind a few seconds to let their past self in, and then close the door and take in the house. There isn’t much to take in, honestly. It looks like a minimalist nightmare. They feel a little better about breaking in.
“Hello?” They call, experimentally. They seem much more amused by the situation than they have any right to be. In the seconds between time they shuck their boots, gloves, and winter coat, leaving the still damp shoes and garments by the door. Wouldn’t want to track snow and sludge into the house.
The sleeves of their soft gray sweater are just long enough to pull over their hands, so they do, crossing their arms and padding with socked feet just a little further past the entryway. One of the paintings catches their eye, and they turn to look at it for a moment. “Anyone home?”
There are few places Lark hasn’t been, at this point. Traveling is kind of part of the job description, if they want to be able to easily get around the globe. It’s exhausting, but also rewarding, in its own way.
Of course, even they don’t have the time or energy to explore every square foot of the entire Earth. That would be much too tedious, and they’ve found a growing hatred of the tedious developing over time. Something, something, growing older, blah, blah, responsibility. Regardless of their feelings, they’re still working on it, so they suppose it doesn’t really matter all that much how they feel about it.
Today is the forest. Today is a very subjective word, in their case, but right now - the right now that they’re visiting, anyways - they are somewhere outside of Millennium, in a forest. It’s quiet, save for the ambient sounds of animals rustling through the snow and the crunch of their own footsteps.
They could probably have chosen a time with better weather to visit this particular location, but the challenge makes it more fun. Gives them an excuse to break out the winter gear.
For a while, they trudge along quietly, admiring the barren trees around them. Snow falls gently, settling in the silver hair peeking out from under the hood of their winter coat. They’re dressed in white, today, blending in with the winter storm. It isn’t their favorite color, but it’s good for traveling unnoticed.
There’s a flash of color through the trees. Curious, they move towards it, footsteps softening until the sound is covered by the wind and the creaking of trees. Closer, they can see a collection of plants, covered in snow. They don’t seem to be native to the area. A garden?
Lark steps out of the trees and into the much more cultivated rows of plants. There’s a greenhouse, with brightly colored plants sheltered from the snow. That must have been what caught their eye.
There’s a house here. Who builds a house this far into the woods? Unless they’ve somehow gotten turned around, this is pretty far from civilization for most people. Whoever lives here probably doesn’t want to be disturbed.
Lark considers the house for another long moment, and then approaches the door. They knock without hesitation, but the sound is barely audible thanks to their gloves and the still-howling wind.
A soft mental ding, a flash of light from within, and the deadbolt slides open. The door opens from the inside, another Lark standing there. They move aside to let their past self in. The Lark outside stomps the snow off of their boots and does their best to brush off their hood and arms before stepping inside.
As expected, it’s nice and warm inside the house. They rewind a few seconds to let their past self in, and then close the door and take in the house. There isn’t much to take in, honestly. It looks like a minimalist nightmare. They feel a little better about breaking in.
“Hello?” They call, experimentally. They seem much more amused by the situation than they have any right to be. In the seconds between time they shuck their boots, gloves, and winter coat, leaving the still damp shoes and garments by the door. Wouldn’t want to track snow and sludge into the house.
The sleeves of their soft gray sweater are just long enough to pull over their hands, so they do, crossing their arms and padding with socked feet just a little further past the entryway. One of the paintings catches their eye, and they turn to look at it for a moment. “Anyone home?”
