It's Mailtime (Open)

[Ada Wong]

The sky flares out above the pair in orange-yellow streaks, akin to the reflections of a hearths fire across shaken metallic foil. Like the ooze of indigo-blue oil settling atop the dunes in sticky mounds of purplish dusk, the horizon declines in the perceptible distance. Grit and sand hurls and glides around them with each brazen wind, much like gold-vermilion dust.

Peregrine watches silently as Dean Winchester’s fingers fly over the tiny buttons of a communications device with a simple kind of monotony. Light clicks, barely audible over the sounds of the skirmish taking place a fair distance away from where they sit, mark the selection of each new key. A faint bluish light is cast across his face as it contorts in both rugged amusement and annoyance at whatever he is reading on the glowing screen.

He has the air of a soldier about him— prepared to strive through red death and smoke with feuds, jealousies, and sorrows hanging over his shoulders. But now, with an almost impish curl to his lips and the peculiar, curious light of mankind gleaming in his green eyes, PM believes that Dean might be feeling more comfortable in his human shape than he did earlier when his eyes were black as pitch.

There is the steady, stuttering rattle of battle clamoring about over her head that tells her that the fight is still raging on. Each tangential syllable resounds with the deafening eminence of cannon shot, crackling like bone upon each fateful impact. The fraymotif artillery, perhaps unheard by anyone but herself, appears to be back in action, with more than enough discordant beats to spare. It mingles easily with the actual sounds produced by the persons scuffling about in the sands, although the music produced is jilted and whirls with the chaotic tempo of combat and coursing blood.

They have been at it for quite a long while. Well, perhaps not so long— they have only been waiting here for a couple minutes, after all, and there is still time yet for this bout to draw to a close. Hopefully she will soon be able to carry out her mailwoman’s duties within the safeguarded walls of Nippur, which apparently lies upon such rich dirt that individuals have seen fit to clash over it.

Crossing her legs at the ankles, PM brings her eggshell-white hands together with an audible click. Winchester glances up, squinting at her through the intense light of his phone. From behind her, the sounds of combat persist, although they appear to be gaining some intensity and volume.

What are you doing? the carapacian asks, drumming the tips of her claws together in her usual way.