C A L L A
The heat is suffocating.
Even the windswept hills and dales cannot escape Tanau's touch. Breezes that ought to cool and soothe instead burn and blister, rushing like the exhaust of a furnace to lick dry tongues on sweaty skin. And though copses of trees offer briefest respite, the majority of the Barrows are unprotected, open to the searing glare of the sun and the scorching heat of the summer squalls.
Calla's limbs are leaden and heavy as she trudges her way through the grasses, Lucifer a shadow at her feet. It is two hours past midday and thus deep in the worst of it, and she is very much wondering whether or not she ought to have left her bed this morning. The Last Step is a welcome sight indeed; with an eager laugh Calla sheds her pack before collapsing into the shade beneath the stairwell, face burrowed into her arms, her sides heaving from the exertion of her walk.
Sticky and tired and unwilling to move, she allows herself to lie a minute in the relatively cool grass. The wind ruffles at the fabric of her lightweight overshirt, almost soothing where it kisses the sweat on her bare legs and thighs. "It would be lovely if you brought some water," she remarks aloud, though neither Luci nor the spirits show any sign they've heard or particularly care. The cat has climbed higher up the stairwell, slinking into a shady step, and the dead are characteristically unperturbed by their caretaker's plight.
