In a few hours, Jill is hoping to be warm and dry, like a bone picked apart by vultures in a desert. Ideally, in front of a fireplace and rethinking escape by boat -- none so far, anyway. It makes her rethink the possibility of building one, though.
She looks to her companion and somehow, the rise of her eyebrows can be heard in her voice if he can't see it on her face in the darkness. "Well, sounds familiar, at least. Midwest; settled in Canada, but was in Africa for work."
She'd have to get the story she was telling people straight, otherwise she might break trust. She's not ready to be clear-cut on it, with or without the more harrowing details. "Prisoner of war" might have to do for the moment, even if it will come with its own questions.
Jill touches the wall with fingertips as she goes, using it as another guiding post beyond the light ahead of them. Is this cave(?) on decline? It's awfully low, so she can't imagine it's a lighthouse... but it's bright enough to reach them without an end in sight. It had to be strong in that case. She means to chirp a little joke when he inquires about seeing anything, but something does catch her eyes. First, the glow of reflection on still water, then the outline of the mirror. Her eyes adjust to the dark better than most and even then, it's... conveniently better lit. Closer to an exit even if they couldn't find one? She doesn't know.
Jill, rather than say something, gently pulls at her companion's arm and gestures both with the lift of her head and the elbow of her other arm at the set-up.
"Looks like a ritual or something might have happened here. Either that or some hermit cares more about their appearance than anything else." No sign of bedding, food, or any other keepsakes. 'Ritual' feels crude, but it's the only thing she can describe what she's seeing as.
She parts from him to crouch and squat (no kneeling, it's easier to pop up and run for her like this) beside the scattered rocks, fingers trickling over them looking for any indentation or writing. They're smooth. Like seaglass.
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She looks to her companion and somehow, the rise of her eyebrows can be heard in her voice if he can't see it on her face in the darkness. "Well, sounds familiar, at least. Midwest; settled in Canada, but was in Africa for work."
She'd have to get the story she was telling people straight, otherwise she might break trust. She's not ready to be clear-cut on it, with or without the more harrowing details. "Prisoner of war" might have to do for the moment, even if it will come with its own questions.
Jill touches the wall with fingertips as she goes, using it as another guiding post beyond the light ahead of them. Is this cave(?) on decline? It's awfully low, so she can't imagine it's a lighthouse... but it's bright enough to reach them without an end in sight. It had to be strong in that case. She means to chirp a little joke when he inquires about seeing anything, but something does catch her eyes. First, the glow of reflection on still water, then the outline of the mirror. Her eyes adjust to the dark better than most and even then, it's... conveniently better lit. Closer to an exit even if they couldn't find one? She doesn't know.
Jill, rather than say something, gently pulls at her companion's arm and gestures both with the lift of her head and the elbow of her other arm at the set-up.
"Looks like a ritual or something might have happened here. Either that or some hermit cares more about their appearance than anything else." No sign of bedding, food, or any other keepsakes. 'Ritual' feels crude, but it's the only thing she can describe what she's seeing as.
She parts from him to crouch and squat (no kneeling, it's easier to pop up and run for her like this) beside the scattered rocks, fingers trickling over them looking for any indentation or writing. They're smooth. Like seaglass.