[Wirt doesn't hear anyone approaching, and doesn't notice anyone else is there at all. For all he knows he's the only person in the library at all, mumbling poetry to himself. He can almost feel warm sun on his skin the more he writes, and he easily slips in to thinking just for a moment that he's lying on the ground on a summer day. There's a breeze, but it's so warm and bright that winter might never come again, and his finger slows to a stop.
But then someone touches him and it startles him enough to wake him up again. He's disoriented, and it takes him a moment to figure out where it came from and who touched him.]
I...I-I'm--
[For once it's not the anxiety of meeting someone new that brings on stammering, but the fact that stringing together a good sentence in response to someone else is exceedingly difficult. He can barely handle talking to himself, let alone processing what someone else is saying and articulate a thought in return.]
...f-fine, m'fine. I'm...i-it's just cold. Really c-cold.
[The library itself is warm enough, but somehow Wirt is cold to the touch and trembling.]
no subject
But then someone touches him and it startles him enough to wake him up again. He's disoriented, and it takes him a moment to figure out where it came from and who touched him.]
I...I-I'm--
[For once it's not the anxiety of meeting someone new that brings on stammering, but the fact that stringing together a good sentence in response to someone else is exceedingly difficult. He can barely handle talking to himself, let alone processing what someone else is saying and articulate a thought in return.]
...f-fine, m'fine. I'm...i-it's just cold. Really c-cold.
[The library itself is warm enough, but somehow Wirt is cold to the touch and trembling.]