Bronn sits bundled in an armchair in front of a space heater, awake and alert despite the blankets and the lingering rasp in his breathing. He looks much as he did before, flushed at the cheeks, tired, but not worsened.
Tiny chimerical forms swarm around him. They are small, each no larger than a thumb, though if one is willing to get a little closer they could take a look (and/or kenning) to get a better grasp of their appearance (and/or nature). A sickly greenish/whitish glow follows them as they spiral lazily around the room, but always seem to seek their way back to Bronn, looping outward only to curve home again. When a sprite brushes a surface, a brief trace of chill appears, a dusting of frost on wood, glass, or blue skin, though it soon fades away in the room’s warmth.