i. the fog; [ He probably shouldn't. The rolling mist is seeping everywhere, thick and cold, causing Quentin's bones to feel light and heavy at the same time. It's just fog, he tells himself. It's just fog. The coldness is science, tiny ice crystals suspended in the air. Or maybe it's just a residual feeling he can't shake from the mirror world.
Still. He really, really shouldn't.
He's not sure how he got here. He's not even sure where 'here' is, other than some sort of ramshackle shack. All he can feel is cold, and when he hears a voice calling out in the darkness, it's unfamiliar. So he shouldn't open the door.
Except Quentin does. He risks it, despite his whole being saying it's a bad idea: cracking open the small little shack's door, he answers back, voice louder and far more confident than he feels: ]
In here!
ii. town hall; [ Quentin snatches the paper from the wall, maybe a little too hastily, because every single thing about it screams 'important clue.' It's less to do with the fact it could be an answer and more because he's desperately grasping at straws. He has no idea why he's here, he has no idea the outcome of his actions back home (just the phrase "back home," isn't that a delightful clusterfuck of phrase for one hell of a situation?) but he can focus on this.
It's better to go insane trying to figure out a small puzzle than to lose your mind with the big picture. At least for now.
It's a matter of minutes before he's got a pen out, another pen tucked behind his ear. He's on the floor like a madman, on his knees as he carefully tries to rearrange the multitude of scribbles on the floor. ]
It's just--it's gotta be something, it's got to mean something...
[ It's easy to mistake him for someone who's lost his mind. It's the Mosiac all over again. ]
iii. wildcard; [ Have an idea that's not on here? Want to plot or come up with a starter? Hit me up at whitespire! ]
Quentin Coldwater | The Magicians
[ He probably shouldn't. The rolling mist is seeping everywhere, thick and cold, causing Quentin's bones to feel light and heavy at the same time. It's just fog, he tells himself. It's just fog. The coldness is science, tiny ice crystals suspended in the air. Or maybe it's just a residual feeling he can't shake from the mirror world.
Still. He really, really shouldn't.
He's not sure how he got here. He's not even sure where 'here' is, other than some sort of ramshackle shack. All he can feel is cold, and when he hears a voice calling out in the darkness, it's unfamiliar. So he shouldn't open the door.
Except Quentin does. He risks it, despite his whole being saying it's a bad idea: cracking open the small little shack's door, he answers back, voice louder and far more confident than he feels: ]
In here!
ii. town hall;
[ Quentin snatches the paper from the wall, maybe a little too hastily, because every single thing about it screams 'important clue.' It's less to do with the fact it could be an answer and more because he's desperately grasping at straws. He has no idea why he's here, he has no idea the outcome of his actions back home (just the phrase "back home," isn't that a delightful clusterfuck of phrase for one hell of a situation?) but he can focus on this.
It's better to go insane trying to figure out a small puzzle than to lose your mind with the big picture. At least for now.
It's a matter of minutes before he's got a pen out, another pen tucked behind his ear. He's on the floor like a madman, on his knees as he carefully tries to rearrange the multitude of scribbles on the floor. ]
It's just--it's gotta be something, it's got to mean something...
[ It's easy to mistake him for someone who's lost his mind. It's the Mosiac all over again. ]
iii. wildcard;
[ Have an idea that's not on here? Want to plot or come up with a starter? Hit me up at