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Lawrence was not as physically fit as he had been in his youth, or at least that was his assumption, some residual knowledge told him that everyone was fitter in their youth and he must have been. The food pack was heavy, his muscles were weary and as he traversed the rocky path, he had a suspicion that perhaps he was not cut out for physical exertion. Perhaps he had been a more sedentary sort of person.

Still, motion was better than none, so he went onwards, revelling in the simple repetition of his horse's movements, one step then the next then the next. It became so entrenched for him that though he saw the edge, he did not immediately think to stop. The horse skidded and slid throwing him off, and he turned to scrabble back up out of a sense that he should.

His heart didn't even pick up its pulse as he eyed the food he'd lost.

Animals didn't like him. His horse didn't like him. The more he pressed it into strange situations, the more irate and nervous it became until at the edge of a thicket something spooked the beast and he was unceremoniously thrown off.

He gathered himself up and continued.

Patiently, he climbed, up and up and up, and he didn't understand what hope was so he didn't dare to hope. He just moved, one muscle after the other, one gesture after another. Sometimes he shivered, but he wasn't cold enough to stop.

Calling out in curiosity to see if anyone was there turned out to be a terrible move as his voice unleashed years of built up snow that absolutely covered him, burying him in cold pressing white. It was only fortune which meant that he found himself able to dig himself out again and retrieve his prize.

Said prize turned out to be a piece of cloth, a rather ornate piece of a cloth - a tabard, patterned with strange, elongated humanoids, perched with gossamer wings spread and strange sharp teeth bared.

It was something, but it wasn't an answer.

[ Greater Tabard of the Fae ]