02-12-2016, 03:22 PM
Trunks' coat repelled much of mother Nature's beating, but merely to the brink of ensuring his survival. Frigid drafts swept under it, and spilled into every unconstricted piece of his garments.
His face fared no better; though he had fashioned the blue blanket from earlier into an impromptu veil, the howling wind carried razors with it, which cut through fabric of his makeshift mask. He kept his chin tucked, but the torrent of snow and sleet diagonally stampeded into his visage, trampling his eyes with darts of ice. The rare opportunities he had to look head he stole, but they salvaged nothing more than the same foreground of whipping white dust. All that remained visible was the groove of the trail, suffocated with snow, but still there. His feet chomped through it, leaving craters in their wake.
Earlier, the path up the mountain had been exceedingly less tumultuous. Snow fell, but in fluffy flakes that drifted down in night sky like weightless feathers; other than a few cotton-balls caught in the faux-fur of his coat collar, the flurries dissolved upon contact. The wind was stolid, only outspoken enough to sift pleasant whispers through Trunks' lavender hair.
He had taken a brief stop in his travel to scan the landscape. While finishing a leftover turtle leg—lukewarm but still good!—, he surveyed the escalation of his trail. It split into two routes, forty meters up. One prong of the fork dipped into a lush valley between two of the summits. A family of pine trees had reproduced well there, and undoubtedly supported a vast abundance of game. The opposite prong continued its snake path up the mountain, extending into the snow-caps. The swordsman could see caves carved into mountains.
What were the chances one of them led to a Guardian's lair? What were the chances that all of them were empty, or worse: geological enigmas (in the Omniverse, anything was in play)? He mulled over the mystery, and filed through the potential consequences. Every snow-capped mountain brought the instinctive unease of worry; avalanche stories were always recorded on Earth, often coupled with tragic endings—Billy and Sue died under the white rubble, never to be found.
Scared money never made no money, or however the saying went. Trunks gnawed the turtle leg to the naked bone, and chucked it over the side of the trail.
He made it to the first cave, and hunkered into it. No Guardian's lair. On the edge of where darkness thwarted visibility, a skeleton stolidly leaned against the right wall of the cave. His head sat in his lap with both hands clasped around the bronze helmet encasing it. Trunks's eyes dashed around for a sword—he figured that was the warrior's preference, given the era of his headgear—but none lain anywhere.
The corpse showcased a troubled image to the swordsman. A message perhaps? No way in hell could a man remove his own head, especially without a weapon. The true inquiry dove into the pool of WHO configured this haunting display, not WHAT. Trunks' impression of Teucer was a long jog from benevolent, but he doubted the spirit would send passive signals.
Trunks went to proceed further into the cave, but a rumble churned from the intestines of the mountain, rattling him backwards. He pounced to the nearest wall and gripped the rough texture of it to maintain his balance. The skeleton vibrated as if becoming reanimated, but fell over instead. His head bounced free as the rest of him disarranged into a pile of bones, doubling over before coming to a rest. Its hollowed eye sockets beamed despair into Trunks' heart. The swordsman looked at the entrance to the cave. Snow flowed over it like a waterfall, slowly walling the opening shut. He had to escape, and fast. With a final glance back at the skeleton's head, Trunks' exited the cave.
“Fuck me,” Trunks said as his mind apprehended what his sight confirmed.
The rumbling came from a huge tide of snow rolling down the face of the summit. As the wave steamed towards him, it amassed in size and velocity, overthrowing the howl of the wind with a perpetual lion's roar. It was an avalanche, no uncertainty about it.
If avalanches wielded the same devastation in the Omniverse as they did in his own universe, he just hit the jackpot of misfortune.
His face fared no better; though he had fashioned the blue blanket from earlier into an impromptu veil, the howling wind carried razors with it, which cut through fabric of his makeshift mask. He kept his chin tucked, but the torrent of snow and sleet diagonally stampeded into his visage, trampling his eyes with darts of ice. The rare opportunities he had to look head he stole, but they salvaged nothing more than the same foreground of whipping white dust. All that remained visible was the groove of the trail, suffocated with snow, but still there. His feet chomped through it, leaving craters in their wake.
Earlier, the path up the mountain had been exceedingly less tumultuous. Snow fell, but in fluffy flakes that drifted down in night sky like weightless feathers; other than a few cotton-balls caught in the faux-fur of his coat collar, the flurries dissolved upon contact. The wind was stolid, only outspoken enough to sift pleasant whispers through Trunks' lavender hair.
He had taken a brief stop in his travel to scan the landscape. While finishing a leftover turtle leg—lukewarm but still good!—, he surveyed the escalation of his trail. It split into two routes, forty meters up. One prong of the fork dipped into a lush valley between two of the summits. A family of pine trees had reproduced well there, and undoubtedly supported a vast abundance of game. The opposite prong continued its snake path up the mountain, extending into the snow-caps. The swordsman could see caves carved into mountains.
What were the chances one of them led to a Guardian's lair? What were the chances that all of them were empty, or worse: geological enigmas (in the Omniverse, anything was in play)? He mulled over the mystery, and filed through the potential consequences. Every snow-capped mountain brought the instinctive unease of worry; avalanche stories were always recorded on Earth, often coupled with tragic endings—Billy and Sue died under the white rubble, never to be found.
Scared money never made no money, or however the saying went. Trunks gnawed the turtle leg to the naked bone, and chucked it over the side of the trail.
He made it to the first cave, and hunkered into it. No Guardian's lair. On the edge of where darkness thwarted visibility, a skeleton stolidly leaned against the right wall of the cave. His head sat in his lap with both hands clasped around the bronze helmet encasing it. Trunks's eyes dashed around for a sword—he figured that was the warrior's preference, given the era of his headgear—but none lain anywhere.
The corpse showcased a troubled image to the swordsman. A message perhaps? No way in hell could a man remove his own head, especially without a weapon. The true inquiry dove into the pool of WHO configured this haunting display, not WHAT. Trunks' impression of Teucer was a long jog from benevolent, but he doubted the spirit would send passive signals.
Trunks went to proceed further into the cave, but a rumble churned from the intestines of the mountain, rattling him backwards. He pounced to the nearest wall and gripped the rough texture of it to maintain his balance. The skeleton vibrated as if becoming reanimated, but fell over instead. His head bounced free as the rest of him disarranged into a pile of bones, doubling over before coming to a rest. Its hollowed eye sockets beamed despair into Trunks' heart. The swordsman looked at the entrance to the cave. Snow flowed over it like a waterfall, slowly walling the opening shut. He had to escape, and fast. With a final glance back at the skeleton's head, Trunks' exited the cave.
“Fuck me,” Trunks said as his mind apprehended what his sight confirmed.
The rumbling came from a huge tide of snow rolling down the face of the summit. As the wave steamed towards him, it amassed in size and velocity, overthrowing the howl of the wind with a perpetual lion's roar. It was an avalanche, no uncertainty about it.
If avalanches wielded the same devastation in the Omniverse as they did in his own universe, he just hit the jackpot of misfortune.