buckingham (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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bakerstreet2025-02-01 05:42 pm
buckingham) wrote in bakerstreet2025-02-01 05:42 pm
Body heat
Post with your character! They're now stuck in a very cold place of your choice. It can be anything, such as a freezing chamber, a cavern or a small cabin in the midst of a blizzard. The choice is up to you.
Comment around! Now your character has some company in this bone-chilling environment. The two of them share two things in common: clothes completely unfitting for this weather (be they summer clothes or even lingerie) and a blanket.
A blanket? Yes, just one warm blanket and no other ways to escape the cold. The two of them will have to share it in order to stay alive in this weather. Don't worry, you're sure to find a common language in this terrible situation!
So, uh, have fun, I suppose. Try to not freeze to death!
Protip: friction and body heat are both excellent ways to fend off cold.
ROOK — VEILGUARD
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They'd been seeing coal-grey clouds for the better part of the morning, but it never seemed like they were getting closer. The storm didn't come out of nowhere, but it did descend quickly, and with a vengeance. It made trudging through already difficult terrain impossible.
It's Rook who finds the outcrop blocking the worst of the storm - the entrance to a shallow but sheltered cave. Despite being out of the storm, Miranan can't feel his toes and his fingers aren't doing much better: his gloves leave a few bare for better grip on arrows or anything else he might be using. It's still nearly fifteen minutes before Miranan gives in to Rook's well-meaning offer to get closer. They'd both fit under a single cloak, and he knows damn well that they'll be warmer together than they will apart.
He shrugs out of his gear but leaves it within reach. "Okay, lift up your arm."
If they're going to do this, might as well fully commit. They'll conserve heat better if they're close and Rook--Rook is pretty easy to tuck up against.
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They were well into the Broken Tooth valley outside the borders of what remained of Weisshaupt when the storm caught up to them. Rook had been eyeing it wearily when the rosy pink of that morning's dawn horizon was marred with darkening clouds. He had been surveying the terrain since they set out for potential shelters and caves unlikely to be flooded by a flash storm. That paranoia had paid off when the sky eventually did open and spill over their heads.
"It's a big cloak," Rook must have said for the third time once they were sheltered as he watched Miranan stubbornly fight off the shivers wracking their drenched frame.
Weisshaupt, like most Warden outposts, had plenty of mousers. Right now, Miranan reminded Rook of this one scrappy black and white tom that scratched and hissed at anything it couldn't properly maim. Like, crows didn't take to being likened to cats, but at least Rook was just contending with pride instead of claws.
The frozen rain won out, and Rook audibly sighed in relief when Miranan's slighter frame pressed against his own. The blue-with-white chevrons cloak of Rook's platemail was, in fact, pretty big and easily draped over the Crow's shoulders.
"You know," Rook said after a lengthy pause. "Nearly lost my toes the last time I had to trek all the way out here. Boots were soaked through and nearly froze them off when night came. Ended up having to make a fire with my small clothes and half a bottle of whisky."
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"If you're suggesting I take off my smalls and set them on fire, that'll require actual compensation," Miranan huffs. Still, a keen ear might catch the smile hidden in their voice. "Other than your charming company."
The elf breathes a heavier sigh and sags more against Rook's side. Staying tense is just going to exhaust him in different ways, and Rook is... safe. When they first met, Miranan didn't believe that anyone tapped for a job like this could be so straightforward, but observation and actually traveling with him has proven otherwise.
"But if you want to remove yours I'll gladly stay under the cloak and watch. Whiskey would make it easier."
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"The time it would take me to take off all my plate, you'd find more amusement in watching paint dry," Rook teased as he shifted his weight so said platemail wasn't digging into Miranan. "There is likely a small bottle in my pack for disinfecting, but the stuff about it keeping you warm is all fish wife bunk."
Rarely did Rook ever speak out of both sides of his mouth—sure, he could lie and blow smoke up the skirts of anyone he needed to dupe, but he favored being direct to the point of dangerous recklessness. That didn't often win him friends, but he discovered it to be a commonality between himself and Miranan. Crows and Wardens rarely crossed paths, but the mood between the two of them had been a comfortable one.
"We should probably build a fire soon, though. I wasn't joking when I said you can freeze to death out here once night falls."
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It'd certainly be more interesting than paint. Miranan shifts when Rook does to avoid the worst of his plate. A frown flickers across their face at the mention of a fire - not because the idea of building one is a problem, but because he knows Rook is right. Miranan might not have a lot of experience in remote terrain like this, but he's learned some basic survival. And he knows too well how cold it can get, even in deserts. Perhaps especially in deserts.
"I'll build one when my fingers stop tingling. I can move around easier." Unlike Rook, the Crow is only wearing light armor, if it can be called that at all. Strategic padding to avoid the worst of a blow, but Miranan depends on getting out of the way rather than taking a hit.
"The last thing we need is you getting awkwardly wedged somewhere."
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Sometimes, being a lowborn Ferelden hick was the best and only explanation for the gaps in Rook's cultural understanding. He actually liked the whole effect, even if he hadn't the foggiest how it was applied or how anyone could find the time. One bad fall in the river, and surely Miranan would come out looking like a raccoon, no? Maybe he'd—no, Rook could barely swim, and he wasn't sure Miranan could either. Best keep the potential pranks for non-life-threatening situations.
"Oh, I can awkwardly wedge myself into plenty of things—conversations, arguments, narrow alleyways, crevices. The pauldrons let me power right on through anyway."
Rook smiled then, a little too proud of himself before drawing Miranan in closer unconsciously when the wind started to pick up.
"There's plenty of dry sagebrush around. With the whisky as an accelerant, we could get a fire going in no time if we needed it. Holding up?"
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The heavy, intricate makeup around his eyes and on his lips is a kind of armor, whether anyone else sees it that way or not. The tattoos flowing down from chin to throat to chest are hard to hide - at least the makeup makes it look a little more... intentional. Even if it can wash off and the tattoos can't. And maybe, just maybe, it distracts a bit from the very obvious scar along the right side of his face.
Seeing them fully bare-faced, even around the Lighthouse, is rare. At the very least Miranan makes sure to have eyeliner on before stepping out.
"Is it the pauldrons? I just thought you were bullheaded." At least the elf smiles, even if their entire body shivers when a gust of wind makes it into the cave. But Rooks arm tightens and it's a comfort, even if Miranan doesn't want to admit it. It's not often someone holds him like this. He huffs a breath.
"I'm all right. And I'm a mage - save the whiskey, setting things on fire is easy. Do you think the wind will do that again? Can we block it...?" That'd make a difference - it'd keep heat in as much as it'd keep any change in the wind out.
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The idea appealed to him when they weren't currently trying to stave off the cold. Hugh was a notorious cheat in cards, and while he tried to avoid preconceived notions, he had his doubts that an Antivan Crow was a staunch believer in fair play. The worst outcome was mascara getting in his eyes, after all.
"I prefer the term thick-skulled," Rook preened with exaggerated pride. "That's why I'm the leader—battering rams always go in the front."
Almost as soon as Miranan asked, the wind kicked up again in a wicked howl that cut clear across the desolate plans of the Broken Tooth valley. Louder than even the ceaseless rolling thunder, Rook feared the storm had yet to hit its crescendo.
"We should move further in," Rook's jovial tone was shed like a second skin, and his expression hardened as he scanned the horizon. There was a firm sense of urgency as he started to move away from the outcropping's entrance as he pulled Miranan with him. "At this elevation, we're not at risk for a flash flood, but our best chances now are to hunker down."
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They might have laughed at Rook's come back, but any levity dies on their lips when the wind hits them. The sound of it chills Miranan as much as the blast of cold. Or perhaps it's the way the teasing smile dies on Rook's lips as he looks out.
"Okay."
No argument, no sass. Miranan grabs the gear he'd abandoned, but moves quickly when Rook pulls on him. Whatever else is true, he knows better than to question that tone, or the expertise of someone who knows this place far better than he ever will. Miranan keeps one hand on the cavern wall as they go. Eventually he takes it away and whispers something. A globe of light hovers above Miranan's palm, casting light ahead of them. Be a shame if Rook banged his head or tripped.