( it suddenly becomes like every natural disaster flick from the turn of the century: torrential downpour, blizzards, and if that wasn't exciting enough for you, spirals of harsh wind teetering just on the edge of genuine tornados. rain whips around hard enough to cut exposed skin, or freezes halfway down and sticks in a mushy sleet. everything about this place has been...moderately tolerable, so far. the food isn't great, when it can be found (and it can, but it's no buffet,) and shelter is such a transitory thing, but this...

this is a lot.

Ben has taken to wearing a large run of canvas, once a drop cloth for artistry or heavy materials working, to keep some of the elements away, and above that...the projectiles getting caught up in the wind. from a distance, Ben is non-description, grey on grey, mostly formless. the added appeal to the camouflage is evading the shadows, which now deform and twist out of shape with the wind, cork-screwing violently. Ben sure as hell doesn't want to encounter one of those, with that kind of attitude.

yours is the first person he's seen in a sizable stretch of time. Ben dares to undrape his head to get a better view, but has to throw his arm up over his face with suddenness — rocks and pieces of glass sweep up against his side, sticking in through the canvas tarp like darts.

Christ, Ben hisses desperately, and watches the cyclone of wind and debris loom heavily, leaning in the direction of this other wayward soul. the wind isn't deafening, but groans soundlessly like a bass, almost too-ominously quiet. )

—Get down! ( Ben shouts, praying his voice carries across the couple yards' distance between himself and yours, just as shattered pieces of wood are sunk into the sides of structures nearby. Ben's sprinting for it toward you, stranger, but he probably can't beat the wind... )

( though there is nothing inherently nerve-wracking about the room — Ben has checked the walls, the second-hand-store-grade vintage settee, under the equally dingy floor rug, everything. he can't find a single suggestion of any traps, anything dangerous, nothing. aside from aunt edna's style of furniture, the room itself is oddly out of place: stony, concrete walls, matching floor, matching high ceiling, too far to reach. the room is about as well-lit as one would be with windows during the day, with no interior lights on, but Ben...can't find a light source. it's the strangest thing.

well, perhaps not the strangest thing. what might be called 'strangest' is that he doesn't know how he got in here, and cannot for the life of him determine how to get out. he's tried shattering the greyed and cracked mirror here on the floor, stood up against the wall, alas, nothing. Ben is trying not to panic. trying not to. doesn't mean that it's going very well...

Ben is very adamantly (nervously) scribbling something in pen on his forearm, until he spots movement in the mirror, just by happenstance as he glances up to chase his spiraling thoughts. he bolts up, sleeve sagging back down his wrist, as he grasps for the mirror's frame. )

Oh, thank Christ— hey, over here, er— the mirror, just to your left— no no, left. Yes, hello.

will match prose or brackets.
find me @ dearlybeheaded,
crybaby#8643, or ghoulette
on the game's discord.
feel free to throw me curveballs. i ain't afraid.