The Fe'gan Mountains are the highest, coldest mountains Lambastia has to offer, with the highest peak recorded at 8589 m (28,179 ft). Only the toughest creatures survive here, and the trek to get to the Basantha Shrine lays through these harsh conditions. (+3 Endurance)

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(p) Northern Rose [S] [V]

Postby Yang » 09/12/2017 6:40 PM

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   Arctic winds nipped at his heels, and a shudder rattled his bones.

The mountain towered high above him, the black peeks snarling in an open maw, haggardly brushing the sky and its clouds with its wide-mouth yawn, only looming ever closer with every aching new step up. What started as a steady slope, quickly sharpened in degree, and despite doing the best he could with available resources to find the easiest path, he was still struck near dumbstruck at how sharp an incline some of these sections were.

He stood at the top of one such climb, fighting for his breath in the cold mountain air. Thick wool undergarments, coverings, and clean bandages meant for open wounds, wrapped up and covered every available section of scaly skin. Still he remained a sickly convergence of both heat from the overworked, aching muscles, and the mountains gnawing cold, the winds only growing stronger and harsher with every meter covered in distance.
"[...]and then, I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is?." -Vincent van Gogh


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Re: (p) Northern Rose [S] [V]

Postby Yang » 09/12/2017 7:05 PM

As his breath gradually eased away from its haggard in and outakes, his teeth began to chatter again. He wasn't one for ego prowess, but that didn't change fact; he was liable to chip a tooth, even break one off, if it kept happening. Gloved hands flexing rapidly, they still visibly shook in time with his teeth. At the very least, as he clenched his jaw, the chattering teeth could be silenced. The rest of his shivering would have to be eased by the laborous task of walking onward.

A sudden blast of wind whipped his hood and any scraps of loose fabric, slithering its way into the cracks and crevices it could sneak in. His spine crawled with the nips and caressing cold, hands desperately reaching up to scramble for the drawstring of his hood. Yanking it hard, the hood shrank around his vision and the snippets of ice wind were cut out. He tried to draw them tighter still, but to no effect;  the greywolf pelt was as pulled tight, as tight as it could go.

He stumbled on, a cough rattling his chest, face knit together in intensity, waiting for the next bale of wind. As he grappled a ledge, pulling himself up the mountain side, the howl calmed; the wind died down, and fat snow flakes drifted, harmlessly by.  If just for a moment.
"[...]and then, I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is?." -Vincent van Gogh


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Re: (p) Northern Rose [S] [V]

Postby Yang » 09/12/2017 7:15 PM

The expedition had started days ago, and the days plowing through the snow was hard work. Snowfall was as reliable and consistent as the sun rising and setting, and a blizzard was liable to pick up as fast as it took to blink. The blanket of white never changed, whether looking to the ground or to the sky, palmed by the teeth of black mountain peeks. If he gazed too long, everything around would form a blank sheet of white in front of his eyes; he had to close his eyes and calm his breathing a couple times, as panic threatened to take over his heart. There was no north, south, east, or west without digging through his items to find the compass, lodged tightly in a side pocket. The sky and clouds were just words at the moment. No horizon existed with all that was white, save for the black rock uptop.

With the wind died down, he paused his walking, head carefully learning back to face skyward. His shoulders and throat groaned, eyes squinting to the above. Glimmers of colour peeked through the haze. Snippets of faded blue (or was it grey?), hinting that there was a backdrop to all the white that swallowed him and his supplies whole. Perhaps, where she was, there was more colour? More blue? If his sources were right, then maybe there was an end to the white onslaught. He held his breath for a moment, letting the air warm in his lungs, before letting it out slowly.
As though triggered by the attempt of calm, the wind picked up, and swept all around him. He faced forward again, arms quickly raising to protect his face from the onslaught with a grunt. It calmed not seconds later, and he dared another glance skyward. For the most part, the sky was gone. It was as seamless as the rest of the world around him.
"[...]and then, I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is?." -Vincent van Gogh


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Re: (p) Northern Rose [S] [V]

Postby Yang » 09/12/2017 7:27 PM

Each step was a battle, and with each push towards his limit, His breathing rattled heavier. Stopping a moment, struggling to even out his inhales, a cough rattled in his lungs, something thick and heavy with phlem. half-coughing, half-breathing, he took another step, then stopped again. Leaning on well-padded knees, the coughing grew worse, until 'HACK' a thick glob of mucus smeared on the front of his mask. A low keening groan-  it was going to be a few minutes before he wouldn't feel the slimey thing against his muzzle, or the new slice of cold from the wet spot on his mask. His lungs still rattled with more, but each hack had him desperately swallowing down to avoid smearing his face with the stuff.

 When he'd started this trek, he'd known it would be tough, distressing, harsh. The cold, far more cruel than any winter on the mainland, would cut to his bones and sink in the flesh as frostbite. The wind, sharper than any howling storm, would leave its branding on any, every, inch of available scale, any part at all that might've been missed in the time spent bandaging, covering, and cloaking. Being cold blooded almost promised a sickness, any kind at anytime, and of them all, a phlem-coated mouth piece in retrospect, was going to be the least of his worries.

Another gulp of air, and he looked on, no longer aware of the sensation of the glob of goo that was as cold as the rest of him. Two days of climbing. Two days.  

Would she be there?
"[...]and then, I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is?." -Vincent van Gogh


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Re: (p) Northern Rose [S] [V]

Postby Yang » 09/13/2017 1:07 AM

A slow inhale, slower exhale, as the wind swirled and calmed with him. Recovering from his slouch, he moved onward. There was a day's march left to reach the top of the peak. If there was any luck still with him, maybe, just maybe, he would reach the summit and leave the blizzard behind.  
If the gods themselves were with him still, then perhaps.. perhaps she would be up there, too. The sources all congregated to that point, and if it proved false... he wasn't sure if it was a truth he would be able to handle, not as exhausted as he was.

A lurch in his stomach as footing gave way, pitching forward. Hand lurching to catch his fall, they scrambled to find purchase, nerves screaming as they found a rock hidden in the powder snow and held on. Numb hands held on for dear life as his feet scrambled, punching through the snow to find a foothold.

His breathing shook, and his body vibrated, holding himself there for a minute. Quickly, he hauled himself up and atop the ledge, huffing and panting as he toppled forward, landing star fished on his back on another plateau of snow and rock.

One more day of this, he thought, wheezing, body trembling, hands aching. One more.
"[...]and then, I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is?." -Vincent van Gogh


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Re: (p) Northern Rose [S] [V]

Postby Yang » 09/18/2017 3:20 AM

His foot slipped again, but he caught himself in time, plowing forward through another snowdrift and potential slab of stone. He prayed under his breath, thankful that it wasn't stone, but praying harder still for something larger- more substantial.

Something loomed, in the outskirts of sight. His head turned away from the onslaught of wind; something jutted out, something massive and bulky that stuck out against the plain fields of white.
'a cave!'
With a burst of adrenaline, he quickly shifted his weight, shuffling through the newest screaming torrent of wind towards the black stone ledge. He nearly tumbled through the opening, gloved hands running along the side for support, as he gasped, catching his breath as the wind died down, and the endless sharp pins of snowflakes, slowed to a drift; against the black stone, it almost looked like the night sky.
"[...]and then, I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is?." -Vincent van Gogh


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Re: (p) Northern Rose [S] [V]

Postby Yang » 09/23/2017 5:42 PM

His breathing steadied itself out as he stood at the maw of the massive entrance. The wind was a distant moan far behind, and with each step farther into the cave, the quieter it became. He looked over his shoulder, the snow whirling about in a maddening fashion;  another blizzard was stewing, and it was going to start screaming against the entrance. From deep inside that cave, it almost looked like a portal to another world.

Easing off the carrying strap along his back, he let it down carefully, stiff muscles groaning as he followed the bundle of gear to the ground. What luck, finding this place. It would save some effort in setting up camp in the wind and snow. Flexing his hands, he dug into the bag, dully feeling around for what was available for flint. It was bloody difficult trying to feel for things under thick gloves, but they were too cold to be pulled from their covers.
"[...]and then, I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is?." -Vincent van Gogh


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