( The infirmary has — thankfully, knock on wood — been quiet lately, so it’s easy enough for Doctor Strange to cut loose from his work and go meet their new arrival in the herb garden. It’s a fairly large space, closer to the old mages’ tower than the templar tower: plots of empty earth squared in by walls, with five trees ringing its edges, their branches barren for the season.
The month of late Wintermarch leading into early Guardian means the weather is wet and cold, and the garden is still empty. But Strange has a couple pouches of seeds hanging from his belt, standing with arms crossed, surveying that earth and envisioning what it could become.
Noticing movement on his periphery, he turns and looks. Does a mild double-take, an arched eyebrow at the shock of white hair, the milky-white eye, the notably pointed ears. He’s polite, however: )
→ action!
The month of late Wintermarch leading into early Guardian means the weather is wet and cold, and the garden is still empty. But Strange has a couple pouches of seeds hanging from his belt, standing with arms crossed, surveying that earth and envisioning what it could become.
Noticing movement on his periphery, he turns and looks. Does a mild double-take, an arched eyebrow at the shock of white hair, the milky-white eye, the notably pointed ears. He’s polite, however: )
Tav, I presume?