Grayish-white specks clung to his dark cloak. He dragged himself through the dusty snowdrifts, struggling through sections to deep for his small frame. His bones rattled against the painfully freezing temperatures, his clothes wet and sticking pathetically to him. Sockets stung, welling with yellow-speckled blue tears, the wind whipping at him and threatening to steal him away. He was stumbling along, half-blinded, and made the most wretched sound of relief when he ran into a wall of yellowish wood. It was so warm compared to his phalanges, he took a brief second of solace in this shelter against that biting wind and to calm down.

('breathe in. breathe out. breathe in. breathe out.') Bone scraped against wood, he followed the wall to a corner and then continued on. It didn't take long for his companion to run out and for him to be left alone. The only reassurance was that he knew his goal was only a few strides ahead. The wind picked up and he curled into himself, barely managing a shuffle in the harsh weather.'something to reflect the current state of mind.' Mandible twitched in a sliver of dark humor as he slipped into the two-story oaken house.

Sans barely contained the soft sigh of relief as he slid off the stiffening cloak and luckily dry pack, hanging them on a chair. Producing soft blue fire from his phalanges, he started lighting the candles scattered across the living room and kitchen. He couldn't help but collapse into the familiar green couch, snuggling into the familiar fabric. The wet clothes still sucking away what little heat he could produce could wait. Sans was just so tired.