[ Hardison stays by the ravine, shivering in the wind, longer than he knows he reasonably should. Not to say it's all that long, but it's not nothing, either.
Part of it's about taking a breather. Regrouping. All the stumbling down the path, the oppressive and terrifying feeling of the fog that suspiciously never closes in, the confusion of being here at all, that's tiring to cope with. Being out in nature. He's happy to explain how tiring it is to cope with.
Beyond that, there's just... something about the setup that doesn't track. That weird dissonance blip between tantalizing safety and "if you stay here you will die." Dissonance and discrepancies, hard for a man of his particular calling not to get a little snagged noticing it. A little itch to reconcile.
Hardison stands long enough to have a think, but he turns back eventually. (He's got a thing about heights and all. Namely falling from them.)
All the better if he's got company. ]
I did not need this survival horror mess in my life right now. List of things I needed in my life? This ain't on it. Dump a man in the woods... [ He stops to try to breathe some warmth into his cupped hands, because dressed for a full winter experience he is not. ]
Hey, buddy system? Yes, you. [ You! There! ] Buddy system. Unless you got a rappelling kit I don't know about, seems to me like we're heading the same way.
[ If he finds no company to seek out at the ravine, he'll still be making his best go of it on the path there and back. What's he gonna do, stand still? ]
b. the end approaches.
[ Progress! Of a sort. Being indoors is no small feat, to his mind. Out of the wind, away from the fog. Closer to civilization.
Well, closer to people, anyway. Civilization has different connotations for him personally.
Hardison is not especially hard to track in most of the indoor settings that the village has to offer. He'll be the man who is sneezing every now and then, solely because he is thinking about the fact that dust is here. He politely keeps it contained to the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, freshly liberated from some empty residence. It's no winter wear, but it'll do in a pinch while he gets his bearings.
His attention at the bulletin board is initially drawn towards the symbols and equations more than anything, towards scanning through the pinned notes for a sign of familiar code words, perhaps, or penmanship. Mix of personal priorities and a tendency to get caught in the weeds. Not that it gets him much of anywhere.
Getting to the map is cool, if by cool one means immediately off-putting. Mostly the message. ]
"He is--" [ Hardison draws himself up, the very picture of a theatrically startled bird. ] Uh, the hell he is. Nah. Someone better send ol' boy a-- some smoke signals or something, tell him his trip's canceled. If it wasn't already.
[ Maybe "he" came, saw and conquered already. Hardison opts to keep that thought, in the spirit of hoping for the best. Creepy message aside, a messed-up old map at least reads like a problem that could have real-world solutions (and if not, well, at least he wouldn't be making it worse). As he examines it more closely, he very much looks as if some gears are turning. ]
alec hardison | leverage
[ Hardison stays by the ravine, shivering in the wind, longer than he knows he reasonably should. Not to say it's all that long, but it's not nothing, either.
Part of it's about taking a breather. Regrouping. All the stumbling down the path, the oppressive and terrifying feeling of the fog that suspiciously never closes in, the confusion of being here at all, that's tiring to cope with. Being out in nature. He's happy to explain how tiring it is to cope with.
Beyond that, there's just... something about the setup that doesn't track. That weird dissonance blip between tantalizing safety and "if you stay here you will die." Dissonance and discrepancies, hard for a man of his particular calling not to get a little snagged noticing it. A little itch to reconcile.
Hardison stands long enough to have a think, but he turns back eventually. (He's got a thing about heights and all. Namely falling from them.)
All the better if he's got company. ]
I did not need this survival horror mess in my life right now. List of things I needed in my life? This ain't on it. Dump a man in the woods... [ He stops to try to breathe some warmth into his cupped hands, because dressed for a full winter experience he is not. ]
Hey, buddy system? Yes, you. [ You! There! ] Buddy system. Unless you got a rappelling kit I don't know about, seems to me like we're heading the same way.
[ If he finds no company to seek out at the ravine, he'll still be making his best go of it on the path there and back. What's he gonna do, stand still? ]
b. the end approaches.
[ Progress! Of a sort. Being indoors is no small feat, to his mind. Out of the wind, away from the fog. Closer to civilization.
Well, closer to people, anyway. Civilization has different connotations for him personally.
Hardison is not especially hard to track in most of the indoor settings that the village has to offer. He'll be the man who is sneezing every now and then, solely because he is thinking about the fact that dust is here. He politely keeps it contained to the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, freshly liberated from some empty residence. It's no winter wear, but it'll do in a pinch while he gets his bearings.
His attention at the bulletin board is initially drawn towards the symbols and equations more than anything, towards scanning through the pinned notes for a sign of familiar code words, perhaps, or penmanship. Mix of personal priorities and a tendency to get caught in the weeds. Not that it gets him much of anywhere.
Getting to the map is cool, if by cool one means immediately off-putting. Mostly the message. ]
"He is--" [ Hardison draws himself up, the very picture of a theatrically startled bird. ] Uh, the hell he is. Nah. Someone better send ol' boy a-- some smoke signals or something, tell him his trip's canceled. If it wasn't already.
[ Maybe "he" came, saw and conquered already. Hardison opts to keep that thought, in the spirit of hoping for the best. Creepy message aside, a messed-up old map at least reads like a problem that could have real-world solutions (and if not, well, at least he wouldn't be making it worse). As he examines it more closely, he very much looks as if some gears are turning. ]
They put cotton swabs in first aid kits, right?