[ Naminé doesn't make it off of her porch before the view outside her house draws her up short, bringing her originally brisk pace to a stuttering stop. The door swings shut - loudly - behind her, but the sound only makes her shoulders flinch, the rest of her too preoccupied with gaping at the blanket of white covering everything to actually glance backward.
The way she looks at it, you'd think she'd never seen snow before. ]
B. || LAKE SHORE | EARLY DECEMBER
[ It seems that since this place previously held the distinction of being her primary location for drawing in the sand, the snow hasn't entirely put a stop to Naminé's creative endeavors here. The shore might be hidden under all the crisp mounds of white, but she's acquainted enough with at least some of the policies of winter to know that there are entertainment options available to her even now.
Not that she's been exceptionally successful with getting the snow to clump together sufficiently to form anything out of it yet. The evidence of that is clear, as a few failed attempts are sitting here and there like sad little hills of uncooperative slush. She did endeavor once to scrape some sort of pattern into the frost, which looked promising enough - but made her hands awfully cold. (Too cold, in fact, to go on with the idea.) By now she's finally gotten around to figuring out how to roll a ball of snow into a slightly larger ball of snow, and is dutifully pushing it along near the frozen surface of the lake with all the concentration that any art project deserves. ]
C. || ANYWHERE OUTSIDE | DECEMBER 16TH
[ Breath clouding in the air, Naminé regards the stick she holds in front of her in one slim hand with a strangely intense concentration. The fact that she's shivering doesn't help much, since both it and her arm keep wiggling, but one can't say that she isn't trying. Her other hand hovers next to it, fingers splayed carefully as though she were about to grasp it. She doesn't, however - and instead they curl in, almost as if in anticipation.
This isn't her first try. Everything so far has created nothing more than disappointing sparks at best, and not one of them has taken. So when she attempts one last time to cast Fire, she's fully expecting to be as resounding a failure as before. Her fingers flick out just the way they did the last time, she forces the magic out the same as last time, and yet - maybe it's the interference of some vaguely remembered recollection finally finding the appropriate place in her mind, but this time, the result is different.
Unfortunately, it's different in a much bigger way than anticipated. A short burst of flame appears from her opened palm, instantly engulfing the small piece of wood. This would be excellent news if not for the fact that it lights all of the stick, including the part still clutched in her gloved hand. Her startled squeak is simultaneous with said stick being immediately released from her hold, whereupon it falls into the snow with an accusatory hiss of steam. The smoldering glove follows in short order, her eyes round as she pulls it off and drops it as expediently as she can manage. Almost disbelievingly, she regards the fallen items in the moments thereafter as they settle, slowly cooling on the ground.
As preoccupied as she is, she's wholly unaware of the gradually growing flame still clinging to the end of her scarf. Someone should probably give her a heads up about that one. ]
Naminé | OTA
[ Naminé doesn't make it off of her porch before the view outside her house draws her up short, bringing her originally brisk pace to a stuttering stop. The door swings shut - loudly - behind her, but the sound only makes her shoulders flinch, the rest of her too preoccupied with gaping at the blanket of white covering everything to actually glance backward.
The way she looks at it, you'd think she'd never seen snow before. ]
B. || LAKE SHORE | EARLY DECEMBER
[ It seems that since this place previously held the distinction of being her primary location for drawing in the sand, the snow hasn't entirely put a stop to Naminé's creative endeavors here. The shore might be hidden under all the crisp mounds of white, but she's acquainted enough with at least some of the policies of winter to know that there are entertainment options available to her even now.
Not that she's been exceptionally successful with getting the snow to clump together sufficiently to form anything out of it yet. The evidence of that is clear, as a few failed attempts are sitting here and there like sad little hills of uncooperative slush. She did endeavor once to scrape some sort of pattern into the frost, which looked promising enough - but made her hands awfully cold. (Too cold, in fact, to go on with the idea.) By now she's finally gotten around to figuring out how to roll a ball of snow into a slightly larger ball of snow, and is dutifully pushing it along near the frozen surface of the lake with all the concentration that any art project deserves. ]
C. || ANYWHERE OUTSIDE | DECEMBER 16TH
[ Breath clouding in the air, Naminé regards the stick she holds in front of her in one slim hand with a strangely intense concentration. The fact that she's shivering doesn't help much, since both it and her arm keep wiggling, but one can't say that she isn't trying. Her other hand hovers next to it, fingers splayed carefully as though she were about to grasp it. She doesn't, however - and instead they curl in, almost as if in anticipation.
This isn't her first try. Everything so far has created nothing more than disappointing sparks at best, and not one of them has taken. So when she attempts one last time to cast Fire, she's fully expecting to be as resounding a failure as before. Her fingers flick out just the way they did the last time, she forces the magic out the same as last time, and yet - maybe it's the interference of some vaguely remembered recollection finally finding the appropriate place in her mind, but this time, the result is different.
Unfortunately, it's different in a much bigger way than anticipated. A short burst of flame appears from her opened palm, instantly engulfing the small piece of wood. This would be excellent news if not for the fact that it lights all of the stick, including the part still clutched in her gloved hand. Her startled squeak is simultaneous with said stick being immediately released from her hold, whereupon it falls into the snow with an accusatory hiss of steam. The smoldering glove follows in short order, her eyes round as she pulls it off and drops it as expediently as she can manage. Almost disbelievingly, she regards the fallen items in the moments thereafter as they settle, slowly cooling on the ground.
As preoccupied as she is, she's wholly unaware of the gradually growing flame still clinging to the end of her scarf. Someone should probably give her a heads up about that one. ]
D. || WILDCARD
[ Choose your own adventure. ]