Eames did, as a matter of fact, feel small in this setting. Oh, it was a representation, a facsimile instead of a fact but wide and open skies and land made him itch. Urban jungle, neon strips and the garish greatness of landscapes built by men were far more comforting. A clever man could exert influence over it. No one could exert influence over trees and rolling plains and the chilly discomfort of foggy air even if the act of dreaming it up was ironic. Eames rather liked irony.
The man in the coat watched the doe's slender-legged approach with a quiet stillness that made him as ordinarily part of the landscape as it was possible to maintain when one was in fact, not. "Why hunt that?" That put to bed any possibility however vague of the dreamer's desire leaning toward country pursuits. It would have gone well with the romanticism of the setting, even if it was a little too hard-bitten to suggest dreaming. Still, it was entirely ruled out now. A romantic, rather than romanticism. The sweater did give it away a little.
"Does it inspire over-thinking?" The setting, the cottage, Eames crooked the cypher's head curiously. The softness of the smile was folded away as an observance for safe-keeping. The picture of the dreamer was becoming clearer, or at least, on this layer it was. People could be very pretty-mannered up top and foul below. Face value wasn't worth much unless you were talking money, darling. The edifice was stronger than Eames had expected and he began to inch down in the dreamer's wake.
"It's rather poetic," the cypher remarked as he fell into step in the muddy walking shoes beside the wild-curled, sharp-looking dreamer. "Overthinking this could produce poetry." He did not accept the invitation nor did he decline it. To do so suggested choice, and dreams followed an order, a drifting that was vaguely inevitable. Eames entering the cottage was something meant to be inevitable and he followed as if it was.
"Do you come here often?" The delivery was clear-cut, beautifully clean of irony.