[ When Albus Dumbledore fights a snowball war, he fights to win.
But bereft for the moment of magic or cunning device, he's been forced to retreat behind siege lines. The enemy are numerous, well-equipped, and have clearly lost all capacity for reason. Best to beat a strategic path to shelter indoors, and live to struggle another day. The revolution will be soggy.
Wiping the fog from his lenses, he makes for a booth in the little shop -- a cafe? Bakery? He can't quite tell, it's all rather blurry (put your glasses back on, dear). It occurs to him, as he sits, that he really ought to actually buy something. It's only polite, particularly for one dripping ice all over the upholstery.
Right, well. That would require having literally any form of currency on him at the moment. He hunts through a pocket, humming an absent tune beneath his breath. ]
"...And scorn not the wand in his old withered hands, but remember those fingers that once could move sharper..."
Albus Dumbledore || Harry Potter and the Adjective Noun.
But bereft for the moment of magic or cunning device, he's been forced to retreat behind siege lines. The enemy are numerous, well-equipped, and have clearly lost all capacity for reason. Best to beat a strategic path to shelter indoors, and live to struggle another day.
The revolution will be soggy.
Wiping the fog from his lenses, he makes for a booth in the little shop -- a cafe? Bakery? He can't quite tell, it's all rather blurry (put your glasses back on, dear). It occurs to him, as he sits, that he really ought to actually buy something. It's only polite, particularly for one dripping ice all over the upholstery.
Right, well. That would require having literally any form of currency on him at the moment. He hunts through a pocket, humming an absent tune beneath his breath. ]
"...And scorn not the wand in his old withered hands, but remember those fingers that once could move sharper..."