(no subject)

[mctrillian.livejournal.com]

In from some very cold planet, both wearing long, thick velvet coats come a mother and her teenage-ish daughter, bracing themselves in the doorway in reaction to the earthquakes, then exchanging glances.

Neither seems preturbed too much, and so, using each other as support, walk to a table rather in the middle of the bar, as not only do they not care who talks to them, but mother Trillian will happily talk back, and daughter Random will offer facial expressions as to suit the mood.

"Hot soup?" Trillian offers her daughter, who smiles thinly.

"Yes, I agree," she continues. "One for each of us. Good girl. Have your flute? Good, I'd hate to have left it there."

Another thin smile, and a nod.

And then soup.