Day 10, Week 1 - The Step One before the Step One

[Corporal Light]

The gunsmith swiped his hand across his torso as Lynch flung snow off of his body. He didn't entirely understand why he was even bothering trying to dust off his clothes, as all it seemed to do was create another spot for the snow to cover. His formally green clothing had changed to pure white, or, at least, white enough that the dark green coloration of his jacket couldn't be considered the primary color from anyone who wasn't already familiar with him. The only article of clothing that had escaped the blizzard's assault was his scarf, which kept its red tint no matter how many pellets landed on it.

Despite the snowstorm's incessant attempts to beat the duo down, the gunner did not feel tired or as if he was in any real danger. He had lived in a world just like the Fields all of his life, so he knew all he needed to know about how to survive in it. Even the blizzard paled in comparison to the more gigantic, almost apocalyptic storms that ravaged his planet at several points in his life. He supposed a lifetime of experience in the harsh, piercing cold where only the most ingenious, toughest, and intelligent lifeforms could stand a chance to survive could make anything look like a walk in the park. He cracked a smile behind his crimson scarf. He had survived much worse than what the elements of the realm were throwing at him that it was kind of embarrassing, if not borderline anticlimactic after all he had gone through to get this far. He had no doubts that he would be able to succeed, or, at least, get close, on his mission in the Fields. Especially if either the dwarves or the trolls proved amateurish compared to the bandits of Camelot or the soldiers of the Empire though he knew either case being true was unlikely.

He couldn't say all of those things about his fellow traveler, however.

It was very clear to the inventor that the gangster was, for the most part, not entirely prepared for a trek through the icy wilderness. A million miles per hour winds, combined with the constant barrages of snow on his person, were no doubt taking a toll on him. The soldier had noticed that he had reignited the flames on his right arm, which probably served as his only heat source. It was evidently a good one too, as parts of Ballad's body grew warm whenever the gangster's arm swished by when he got close during their walk. Aside from his makeshift torch, however, he did not appear to possess any other equipment that could give him an edge. To be more accurate, it did not look like he was anything but ill. He was shivering, which in and of itself was a good sign, but he was also cupping his left eye like he was afraid it was going to pop out. Whatever the kid had been doing, it hadn't been good for him.

Thankfully, his attention was diverted to another object: The mountains.

The wind slowed down slightly as if to grant Ballad permission to gaze upon its wondrous, albeit intimidating peaks. Even from a distance, he felt comparatively puny beside the large, irregular shaped landforms. He beheld it for everything: It's humungous size, it's uneven surface that looked like someone had bent a bunch of white papers together and stacked them up to form a steep hill. And that wasn't even the only one. There were plenty more behind it.

The terrain before the gunsmith was like baby steps to train you for the real thing, with several hills rising from the ground like tumors. A few of them had holes, most likely caves, excavated into them. One of which was only fifty feet or so away.

Lynch spotted it before Ballad did, and was quick to point it out to him. It was how he did it, however, that caused his eyes to widen in shock and stare at him for a few moments. He couldn't tell if the question was supposed to be polite, sarcastic, or some perversion of the two that, by every extent of logical thought, should've been impossible. It took nearly twenty seconds just for him to process his words, let alone respond to them.

When he did, he returned the flattery with some of his own. "Your receptors serve you good fortune, desperado. I say we take shelter in the natural, underground grotto, set up a fire, and make camp."

The gunsmith let out a small chuckle as he began to make his way towards the homely-looking cavern. He figured that the cave was a win-win for the both of them. Lynch probably needed it to rest, or, at least, recover from something; he needed it to contemplate on how he was going to execute his plan to end the war. Preferably without getting caught in the act.

And to make the snowshoes. Those would probably be useful as well.