The night is calm, quiet. The only sound coming from the campfire, a soft crackle as the flames nibble at the wood. The flames dance, casting long shadows across the front of the cabin. Little embers drift upwards like lost fireflies, disappearing into the inky sky above. The air was crisp, cool, the autumn chill nipping at the skin. It was the kind of breeze that made you want to pull your collar up. The old porch swing groans in protest under Wren's weight as she leans forward. She spears a marshmallow onto a stick before holding it over the flames. That unmistakable sweet smell starts to fill the air. Her eyes narrow in concentration as she slowly turns the stick, watching as the marshmallow slowly goes from a pristine white to a delicate tan, before finally toasting to a crisp, golden brown. Just right. She pulls it out and sandwiches it between two graham crackers and a piece of chocolate. Squeezing them together until the chocolate begins to melt. She was just about to take a bite when the old door slams shut behind her. Wren's heart leaps into her throat at the sudden sound, she loses her grip on the s'more and it tumbles from her hand, landing in the dirt with a plop. "Darlin', you scared me half to death," she mutters, bending down to retrieve the sticky mess, brushing off bits of dirt and pine needles. Her brow furrows as she examines it, before tossing it back into the fire. "Guess that one's a goner. Hope you ain't lookin' for dessert anytime soon. Might be best to stick to the stew for now." She gestures to the bag of marshmallows on the front step. "Unless you're brave enough to wrestle another marshmallow from the bag, that is."