Chapter One: Sweet Dreams are Made of These

[Bjorn]

Big enough not to burst if it freezes, Bjorn decides.  No worries, then.

He settles down to eat his share of the rations, not rushing, but going slowly, giving his body plenty of time to deal with the new calories.  As he eats, he alternates between looking up the hill after Dracos and the elf, and staring out over the plains around them.  "Hope they hurry," he mutters, hardly aware of speaking aloud.  "Can't stop moving for too long."

[Huitzil]

Paul wonders if he should make known just how fucking little he knows about what's going on, then decides against it. This is a dream, in a sense, and when you dream you'll always know what you need to about it.

Instead, he chews his ration without really tasting it, and takes the instrument into his hand, bringing his fingers across the strings in an exploratory manner.

[Brian]

At the first touch you know the lute is just a hair out of tune.  It makes a very good sound, though -- the higher notes sounding sweet, and the lower notes sounding more expansive than seems likely for such a small instrument.

[Huitzil]

Paul tries to move his fingers across the strings without thinking about where they're moving to. He doesn't know how to play, but in this place, perhaps his fingers know for themselves.

With the same far-off stare, and in the same self-conversing whisper, he starts talking again. The words are lyrics, but come out with no music.

"Purple haze, all in my brain... lately things don't feel the same..."

[Brian]

Your fingers appear to know their own way around the instrument.

[Dracos]

OOC: Sorry for the delay.
IC:

Dracos focused on perceiving this as simply...one big role playing game for now.  Nodding taciturnly, he followed Liandril up the hill, keeping his eyes peeled.

Dracos

[Rezantis]

Rez chews on a small amount of food out of his own pack, and casts a questioning glance towards Bjorn.

"Not quite what I was expecting, really."

[Brian]

Phil:  You attempt to climb the hill.  Your longer limbs prove adequate for the task, though Liandril does need to wait for you to catch up every so often.  You're probably about twenty meters up when you reach the crest.

From here, the snow is thinner, showing long, dead grasses.  They come up almost to your knees.

To the north, the vast wastes continue, pretty much unhindered.  To the east (and somewhat south) you can see the continually rising slope of the crescent shaped mountain range that you're trying to go around.  The receeding heights stop somewhere in what's become foothills (which you are on one of).

South, you can see more plains, though these are hillier, and sport thicker vegetation.  Occasional trees, at the least.

West, you can see a river wending its way through the foothills a few kilometers off.

Liandril stares at the land to the south, apparently deep in thought.

[Dracos]

Dracos eyes Liandril, moving slightly near him and eyeing him and the south, waiting patiently for the moment to see if he'll speak without further prodding.

Dracos

[Brian]

"The way looks clear," he says doubtfully.  "But I have a feeling ... that something is not right."  His eyes scan westward, and towards where you can see the sluggishly moving river.  He seems unafected by the cold, but you're not totally imune, yourself.

"We'll cross the foothills lower, further east," he decides.  "There, we should still make good time."

[Dracos]

"Something is not right, but we must move on, none the less.  Your path seems wise," Dracos responded, looking around carefully one more time for anything that particularly caught his eyes as off.

Dracos

[Brian]

Code Select Expand

<Dracos> Roll 3d6 for perception
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Dracos ... : 3d6 for perception --> {7}
Hold that thought.  A river?  In a place this cold?  And why's it black?

[Dracos]

"That river.  It...should not be moving in this weather.  Nor is it colored right.  Do you have a spyglass?" Dracos said with narrowed eyes.

Dracos

[Brian]

"River?" Liandril says, frowning.  He makes a gesture, and the (very faint, now that you're outdoors) bobbing flame over his head lowers into one hand.  He leans forward, and says something in a language you don't recognize.  You're sure it's pretty vulgar, though.

"They were hidden from my eyes, but not yours," he growls.  "The army ... we cannot pass that way.  We number too few to challenge such a number."

Now that he mentions it, that river could be a massive host of armored people, and what you thought was light reflecting off of waves would really be far distant weapons and armor.  The river extends some distance to the south, as well.

"This is ... we must consult, all of us together.  Perhaps Madame Mirallia will have some advice," he decides, releasing the flame from his hand to float overhead, and bounding down the hill without waiting to see if you follow.

Everyone else sees the elf dash into the camp, sliding the last few steps to a halt.  "We must change our plans," he says tersely.

[Dracos]

Dracos follows quickly.

Dracos