[Clove strikes a match, letting it burn for a moment before she drops it.
Blood and apple and cinnamon and leaves and the faint trail of smoke.
The fire that's trying to catch.
She closes her eyes, her breath steady for now.
...She doesn't seem to even think about the flickering match, her hunched position, and the ponytail dangling over her shoulder, dangerously close to becoming its own kindling.]
action:
Blood and apple and cinnamon and leaves and the faint trail of smoke.
The fire that's trying to catch.
She closes her eyes, her breath steady for now.
...She doesn't seem to even think about the flickering match, her hunched position, and the ponytail dangling over her shoulder, dangerously close to becoming its own kindling.]