for notes, letters, and other exchanges
- the door to Samson's room is guarded by an armed man; open-door visitors may come and go during appointed hours; private visits may be held with permission from the appropriate authority (or by bypassing the guard somehow, if you're so determined)
- paper messages may be exchanged; all contents will be skimmed by an officer unless delivered surreptitiously
- he has no sending crystal nor any message book at this time
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Make no mistake, the sound of her voice is heartening—it's not easy to imagine Merrill addressing anyone with disgust, but he's persevered—it's just the sight of her that fetches him up. Beneath a deeply frowning brow, his eyes dart about in assessment of every part of her but her face.
He'd rather not confront her gaze directly. Not yet.
"I, er..."
Well, there have been worse starts. Perhaps a step or two closer will bolster him. (It doesn't, but at least he's closer now.)
"I heard you'd all come back." From the battle, in the war ongoing. As a front line veteran he's seen much worse—he's seen worse even as a regular old templar, having tied up not a few failed Harrowings in his time—and he should know better. He does know better. But he's staring anyway, having been drawn and snagged by the movement of her limb.
He is wearing a hat. It's a winter hat, knit in blue-green, with flaps to cover his ears and a sort of yarn tuft on top. It is ridiculous.
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Not all, and Merrill's gaze flicks away for a moment; down, toward the untied laces of her boots, toward the remnants of mud and blood that no longer cling to them (she had scrubbed) but that she remembers.
Samson doesn't mean anything rude by it, she reasons; he is glad that she, at least, has come back. At least, she thinks he's happy about it. He's the one who approached her, after all.
Creators, people were difficult.
"Mostly," she manages, with a sad sort of smile. Her gaze travels up from her boots to Samson's, up and up until she sees his hat and her smile turns more genuine, if a bit bemused. Her fingers twitch; whether it's the electricity in her system or something else is hard to determine, even for her.
"Did you make your hat?"