[AW] buried deeper than a coal mine
set near bête noire.

The snowstorm had caught him off guard.

In what had been over the course of an hour, the sky had gone from clear to cloud covered. The wind picked up, a resolute chill rushed in, and the snow had begun. Tarot hadn’t even realized it was about to happen, so far invested into his own thoughts that he had missed the signs.

The harsh wind was enough to pull him from such things as the squall raged, the sudden loss of his own visibility enough to push him along with haste. He had been caught out in the open, now well further south than he had been before, and that wind may as well have been a cutting force to push him towards panic.

He was often troubled by things, but this was well out of his control. Such an event could and would no doubt push him towards an edge, but it wasn’t exactly an edge that he desired. Freezing to death or stumbling into who knew what wasn’t apart of the plan; there was no amount of suffering that could have comforted him into thinking being caught in this was the way to go. It wouldn’t amount to enough to justify anything.

Or at least that was what he told himself as he pushed ahead.

Holding a hand up to shield his eyes as the wind kicked up powdered snow, he thought he could see shelter through the haze. He was either going to stumble across it one way or another, or his luck was continuing to shine through somehow. Or maybe it was just that survival instinct at work despite his present inclination to ignore it—either way, Tarot headed towards it without so much as consideration as to whether or not he was walking headlong into a trap.

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