[PRP] Lost assumes you had a destination to begin with

[theLimeTree]

WHO: Julian and Baron
WHEN: Twilight- weaning hours of the day
WHERE: Stillcrest
WEATHER: A dry sort of freezing, nips harder, freezes faster.

Out of all the ports, Stillcrest had made itself known as nothing short of being the Devil's naval port. The obligation of the new Battery Tactics officer required a journey to several military hubs in the continent of Panymium. Stillcrest was the most secure port to the beginning of his journey. It was also the most terrible. The frozen air took its toll while they were still at sea. Boarding land had done little to lighten the mood Julian had long since formed about the North. Why did they have to start with the warmer portions of their militia reach? Why did they have to have a northern expedition at all? Winterview was no closer now than it had been in- say for example Ald... Ald was warmer with great night life. Stillcrest was a frozen barren wasteland and nothing could deter him from this notion.

Including the robust personalities of the people, the mountains, the trees and thriving communities. It was barren in his mind. He'd finally gotten sick of it all. The journey had been long, this was his final destination before he sat through the terribly stuffy ceremony of promotion. He'd speak with heads of batteries, state and training committees before long. However for the next few days while his entourage completed the orders he delegated- he'd go missing for a while. Clear the air in his head, the icicles from his bones and the short temper residing in his chest.

Getting drunk in a more remote tavern and deciding to gallivant through the woods on foot was probably not the best method of decompressing. This was made maddeningly apparent when he had fallen into a particularly comfortable part of snow drift- curled in cloaks and furs issued for the colder weather- and decided it was comfortable. Yes, this would make an excellent spot to sleep off the drink. Never mind his fingers were the color of the twilight ridden polar sky. He found polaris and beamed dreamily, reaching down and patting the astrolabe in his satchel and drifted.  

[circus king]

The upcoming winter was supposed to be one of the worst the little, barren village had seen in decades. So were the maids at the fisherman's shop saying, at least. Frankly, Baron did not know what to think of the lack of snowstorms and the dry environment that Stillcrest had been seeing lately. "perhaps it's just a strike of good luck" he thought, "perhaps it's the calm before the storm." Something inside his robust body felt like it was the later, though.

His feet sunk heavily in the snow, leaving a long and wide track behind him. The man kept aimlessly looking for the path his ancestors had built aeons ago, a comfortable, wood-paved guideline that stretched from that atrocious bar deep within the forest and the rest of the wine-thirsty civilians. Indeed, it was nowhere to be found. In the distance, however, the dim lights of a nearby village glittered, directing the herculean towards his home. What a shame it was to think that, in his own cabin, no lights glittered yet. He sighed at the thought of having to light up the chimney.

Behind him, a terrifyingly heavy sled squeaked. It was filled to the brim with wooden logs of different sizes and smelled heavily of greenery. On top of the wooden throne, a pup yawned. It was Bishop (... being useless, as usual.) It was obvious that, for Stillcrest's hermit, it had been an arduous day.
The giant's eyes remained fixed on his feet, focusing his entire body on moving forward, little by little, while the chariot behind him insisted on pulling him back. Yet somehow, the man had managed to come a long way now.

Bishop howled weakly, jumping off the sled. It had found a bear-shaped figure lying on a snow hill, not far from where the dumb butcher was struggling. It sniffed the body a little bit, then jumping on it joyfully, then finding a bronzed face in between the fur-- a face that reeked of alcohol. The dog started licking it excitedly, as if it had found a fresh piece of meat. Now that was a nice find.

Flanagan ran up to the corpse as well, almost as excited as his hound was. Was it a dead deer? a bear? a very large wolf?
No. Ugh.
It was just a drunkard taking a nap in the middle of a frozen hell. Well that man had some common sense. A tourist, for sure. The butcher growled to himself. Hell, if there had been something his good old momma had taught him, it was that Panyma would have never left a good soul stranded in me middle of Shyregoed. And as a good servant of the Lord, Baron was obliged to help that awful stranger.

Just as if the man were another wooden log, Baron threw him onto the pile. It was when the stranger didn't even complain that Baron realized-- either that man was dead, or that'd been his best party yet. He'd know for sure when they arrived home.

 

[theLimeTree]

Julian was not moving. Julian did not want to move. Julian couldn't think of moving and he was quite content with the cool of the snow permeating cloaks, meat and to the bone. His one query and qualm with the entire situation was that the earth still didn't want to stop tilting on him. And that was actually a bit rude. He felt his stomach curdle and he managed to twinge tighter in on himself. Then there was snuffling it was all getting pretty shallow in his mind.

Then everything changed. He was being lifted. Something he was most unhappy with- but lacked energy to actually move or protest. Instead the sailor gave a groan and choking noise before he was carelessly dropped onto a pile of wood. He might have leched then. Definitely as bile was on his chin. He slowly cracked open his eyes, glancing over at Flanagan and pursed his lips.

" 'llo there? " He flopped onto his back and squirmed, the cold finally hitting him, "I promise you I'm not a woman- despite my octave-"

The seaman squeaked out, suddenly realizing the state of his masculinity. He lurched, gripping his belt and curling tighter. "Or a eunuch. Not a eunuch!"