"Aren't you the one who wanted to come? At least try to act professional." He opens another door and brightens a little, stepping through into a room filled with shattered mirror frames.
In the room is a woman, pale-faced in the way that comes from significant shock and blood loss, dark-haired and dark-eyed. She has one hand clasped over her throat, like she's holding her head in place; the jagged edges of some ugly wound peek between her fingers, though mercifully there's little blood.
One hand is curled into a fist; she drops it on Ekkehardt's approach. Her head moves, just a little, to look at him.
"Excuse me," Ekkehardt says politely, as he kneels in front of her. The rest of his words are technically comprehensible, but are hard to grasp, like their very nature is formless. They're certainly having a conversation, that much is certain, but what it's about is hard to grasp.
No frames are left intact, no shards remain. But still, there's the gleam and catch of glass reflecting light, here and there, like something is poking a light through into the dark room.
no subject
In the room is a woman, pale-faced in the way that comes from significant shock and blood loss, dark-haired and dark-eyed. She has one hand clasped over her throat, like she's holding her head in place; the jagged edges of some ugly wound peek between her fingers, though mercifully there's little blood.
One hand is curled into a fist; she drops it on Ekkehardt's approach. Her head moves, just a little, to look at him.
"Excuse me," Ekkehardt says politely, as he kneels in front of her. The rest of his words are technically comprehensible, but are hard to grasp, like their very nature is formless. They're certainly having a conversation, that much is certain, but what it's about is hard to grasp.
No frames are left intact, no shards remain. But still, there's the gleam and catch of glass reflecting light, here and there, like something is poking a light through into the dark room.