redwater

lorkin

POSTED: Tue May 01, 2018 2:18 pm

The weather had begun to turn a milder shade of spring, the harsh coldness of winter slowly eking away into something resembling a mushy warmth. It was a blessing for Tristan, who had slowly been losing the fight of solitude. More often than not, his thoughts turned to the benefits of living with others, of finding somewhere to settle down and make a home for himself. It wasn't necessarily what he'd come here to do, not the start of his mission. But the trials of the cold and the lack of consistent food were beginning to take its toll. Wrapped up against the snap of cold air in the morning, he still made a formidably tall figure against the backdrop of the mountain that he skirted round.

He'd made it as far south as he wanted to go and then slowly moved back up north again. Exactly where he was going was not certain, because he wandered without purpose. Several days prior he'd set a few simple traps around the lower meadows that ran up to the mountain edges and he came back now to collect on anything that had become trapped. The first few were fruitless and had been sprung by creatures far too smart to be caught up. He reset these and moved on, until finally he came to one of the outer lying traps he'd set. A young hare, no more than a few weeks old given springs tentative grasp on the world. It struggled when it saw him and the Stormbringer man was quick to snap its neck. Not only for the humanity of the act, but also because he was hungry enough to eat it raw and he had no intention of letting it get away. The soft downy of the hare's pelt was tempting though.

He skinned it instead, carefully removing the softest of the fur and scraping the majority of the subcutaneous matter from it before he pinned it out to dry. It would take a while in this weak sun, but he had enough time to build a fire and roast the skin dry. Tristan began to gather the driest snaps of wood he could find, building a tiny tipi shape around the dry kindle that he always kept spare on his person. Taking the well worn flint and steel from his pack, he began to strike in the hope that a fire would soon be forthcoming.
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000+ somewhere around mount oromocto, pre-MV joining
Mistfell Vale
Whalstray (NPC)

POSTED: Thu May 31, 2018 10:00 pm

OOC: Hi! Sorry this took forever. :")

They'd sought refuge in the ruin of an old cabin. It was damp and smelled of wood-rot, secluded off in a segment of forest under the shade of a distant peak. Cackle had taken to scavenging and brought back portions of his finds, but Lorkan found he had very little appetite. He stayed cloistered in the yard during daylight hours, in more or less the same space he had occupied the past three moon rises.

After his encounter with the grey woman, he'd set out to put some distance between them, but in his wounded state had managed only a few miles. The trek had left him utterly exhausted, still feverish as he was. Now, his fever had subsided, and in its place was the raw soreness of his bones, the sharp sting of the weave which joined the openings of his wounds. The skin there was frightfully hot. Lorkan knew enough of injuries to be concerned, but there was little he could do besides rest, and wait, and pray the heat did not spread.

It was the morning of the third day. The air was damp with moisture. Little pearls of dew glistened on the sparse grasses about the cabin grounds. Lorkan had worked laboriously over the course of many minutes to bring himself into a standing position. His legs felt steadier than they had been, but anemic from disuse. He knew Cackle to be nearby, though he could not see the bird just then.

Satchel strapped across one shoulder, he ventured reluctantly from the safety of the small lawn, guided by a restless itch. He managed a few yards without interruption before he had to stop and steady himself against a proximate sapling. His claws dug into the smooth bark, his frustration manifest, and wood splinters pierced his palm. It was then he heard wingbeats coming from behind him, saw Cackle's dark shape rush past. Intrigued, he stumbled forward in pursuit, one knife drawn and held at the ready.

Upwind of the encampment, Lorkan could not detect the odor of the stranger's burgeoning fire. He kept his eyes trained on the horizon, searching the treetops for his companion's silhouette. His progress was strained and slow. He was forced to pause periodically. But he felt more alive, more lucid than he had in days. This newfound strength, small as it was, filled him with purpose.

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