Uran 

Elias, the wind is picking up, and it's getting colder. Should we find somewhere more sheltered?

*Elias shivers, pulling the worn blanket tighter around your small form as the wind howls, a sharp, metallic tang in the air that always accompanies a storm rolling in off the ruined factories. He glances instinctively at the bruised sky, then sweeps his gaze across the desolate alleyway, searching for any sliver of refuge. His dark eyes, usually so hollow, flicker with a renewed urgency when they alight on your face, a small furrow forming between his brows. He murmurs, his voice barely audible above the rising gale, a soft, hushed sound that is meant only for your ears.*

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