"I'm f-fine," Wilde chattered, trying to rub some feeling back into his hands.
It was such an obvious lie, and as much as he didn't mind Emery hovering, he didn't much care to be fussed over. He shucked off the the green leather surcoat, the fleece trim damp with melting snow. The red coat underneath was also soaked, and he shed it, draping it over the back of a chair he set near the fire to dry.
For someone who gave the impression of a hermit farmer, Wilde sported quite a lot of tattoos. Most seemed almost like idle scribbles - looping lines and knots that bared no known significance. But one was much more detailed than the rest. Positioned just over his heart, depicted a skull and flute.
"There's blankets, upstairs. Clean. Just grab the whole lot. You'll need one as much as I will. The cold tends to creep in weather like this."
For now he needed a warm change of clothes and to boil some water.
The "upstairs" was more of a glorified loft. The wood floor was dry, old and creaked, though like the rest of the little cottage, everything was clean and well-kept. There was a bed, piled high with blankets and quilts just as Wilde said - all made from the heavenly soft wool his goats produced. There was also a loom, baskets of yarn, and scattered materials for making dyes set aside likely for spring and summer.
no subject
It was such an obvious lie, and as much as he didn't mind Emery hovering, he didn't much care to be fussed over. He shucked off the the green leather surcoat, the fleece trim damp with melting snow. The red coat underneath was also soaked, and he shed it, draping it over the back of a chair he set near the fire to dry.
For someone who gave the impression of a hermit farmer, Wilde sported quite a lot of tattoos. Most seemed almost like idle scribbles - looping lines and knots that bared no known significance. But one was much more detailed than the rest. Positioned just over his heart, depicted a skull and flute.
"There's blankets, upstairs. Clean. Just grab the whole lot. You'll need one as much as I will. The cold tends to creep in weather like this."
For now he needed a warm change of clothes and to boil some water.
The "upstairs" was more of a glorified loft. The wood floor was dry, old and creaked, though like the rest of the little cottage, everything was clean and well-kept. There was a bed, piled high with blankets and quilts just as Wilde said - all made from the heavenly soft wool his goats produced. There was also a loom, baskets of yarn, and scattered materials for making dyes set aside likely for spring and summer.