Entry tags:

"the snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches." -- e. e. cummings

WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: The Inn/immediate surrounding area
WHEN: Jan 13, after supper
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: foul language probs

LEAVING THE INN

OTA

He'll never get used to Winter.

This is Benedict's second cold season down on the Surface, and he would have thought he'd be prepared for snow; after all, he had plenty of experience with it last year — never mind that it hardly feels like a year has passed, he's had it explained that the seasons only happen once each per year and a year is shorter here than it is back home, by nearly a third! — but he was wrong. He's starting to think that one can never be ready for snow, that it catches you unawares every time, that you're left scrambling to deal with it no matter how well prepared you think you might be.

It started snowing overnight. In his humble opinion, that's the absolute worst time for snow to begin to fall. When snow begins during the day, you can keep an eye on it, keep abreast of it, decide how you're going to deal with it and make the effort regularly to go out and maintain your pathways. When it snows after you're already in bed... It's pretty to look at, he'll admit that, but only from the warm safety of his bed, with Kate beside him like a warming stone tucked against his side. When he inevitably hast to get up and get started for the day, the crushing weight of the impending snow-removing work he has to do feels like a physical weight on his shoulders.

By the time the evening meal is concluded, Benedict is afraid that, by the time morning rolls around again, he won't be able to even guess where the path is to shovel it even if he wanted to.

Bundling up as best he can, making use of some of the abandoned cold-weather gear left behind by those who've disappeared in the past, he heads towards the front door, a coil of climbing rope over his shoulder. As he nears the door, he grabs the sleeve of the person closest to him.

"Do you have a minute?" he asks, voice muffled by the way he's turned up the collar of his coat and has already burrowed down into it in anticipation of the miserable task ahead. "I would be eternally grateful for an extra pair of hands for a brief moment."

BACK AT THE INN

OTA

Surely it's not healthy to be this cold. Benedict is fairly learned, more so than many of his peers, but while he studied human anatomy in both an academic and a military-triage sense, he does not have much knowledge about extreme temperatures and their effects on the human body. In the climate-controlled Spires, it wasn't exactly an issue, outside of perhaps accidents involving fire or blaster burns. The only time he had ever possibly gotten close to being as cold as he's grown used to becoming during treacherous Winter was on the airship Predator, and even that felt wildly different than this.

He's hung up his sopping wet clothing, changed into something dry from the wardrobe, and even went so far as to drag the blanket off his and Kate's bed so he can wrap it around himself as he huddles near the fire in an attempt to thaw out his frozen extremities.

"How do you people live like this?" he grumbles to nobody in particular, tucking his fingers into his armpits and pulling his knees up to his chest.

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Truth be told, Ned has all but flourished in the wintry months that've come to rest upon the village. He'd suffered through the heat of the summer, as he'd always done whenever he'd travelled south of Winterfell, and in his eagerness, he'd aired out his fur-lined cloaks at the first threat of cold. It had been a bit of a false alarm then, but when the snow and ice began its steady descent, first in the last month and now this, Ned can't help but be a bit excited to put those cloaks to good use. He'd even received an outfit similar to the one he'd favored back home, which he decides to wear once he rises to see a flurry of white outside of his window.

He checks the traps, sees if he can muster up any game, but the endless snowfall has driven most of the creatures underground or in burrows, he imagines. He stops by the Inn regardless, checking on the food stores, having himself a drink, and taking advantage of the large hearth to warm his bones. He's borrowed a book or two to occupy his time, and when he finally feels it's time to head back home, he gathers his things, dons his cloak, and heads out the door.

What he doesn't expect, however, is to be stopped by a man he's not seen before. The poor lad looks positively frozen where he's standing, and Ned can't help but be a bit sympathetic for a lack of Northerner's blood. He tugs on his gloves and nods.

"Aye, of course. What do you need?"

He's relieved that the closest person to him — although, considering the layers he's wearing, surely he's close to absolutely everybody in the inn at the moment; he feels like he's bulked up to twice his size in all these sweaters and coats — seems to be far-better prepared for the weather than the rest of them; it surely means he'll be better help for his hare-brained scheme than someone else.

"The snow shows no sign of stopping. I cannot keep the paths shoveled clean enough to ensure safe passage." He'd probably freeze to death if he tried at the height of midafternoon, forget about overnight.

Hefting the rope he's slung over his shoulder, he continues, "I thought perhaps erecting a sort of rope path might help those who insist on braving the cold from straying too far from the safety of the buildings."

Ned's brows furrow as he listens to the stranger's plan, looking from his face, to the sky overhead, and finally to the rope. He considers the thing for a few moments as he puts it all together and then finally looks the man in the eye with a firm nod. He tugs his gloves on more firmly, wiggling his fingers a bit to ensure they're in as solidly as possible.

"Not a bad idea at all," he says, even if he doesn't entirely understand why such a thing would be possible. Of course, Ned's coming from a place where, even in the long summer, snow, frigid temperatures, and ice were steady constants in Winterfell. From childhood, everyone learnt how to navigate to and fro, knowing not to venture far outside of the protective walls if it could be helped. But everyone made do and knew how to trek about in weather much more severe than what the village is currently experiencing.

"Lead the venture, and I will be sure to follow and assist."

Moana hadn't dared to step outside of the inn today. She had found a seat next to the fire early in the morning and then watched as people slowly milled about the main room. Only a few braved the outside and Moana felt herself huddling closer to the fire whenever the door open and cold swept through the room. It was crazy to go outside in this storm.

She watched as Benedict stepped back inside, her dark eyes noting the way that his lips trembled from the cold. He vanished briefly, reappearing with a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders. As he stepped towards the fire, Moana shifted and moved out of the way to give him space.

"They stay inside?" It was posed as a question because Moana didn't have an answer for him. She didn't live in a climate that neared these temperatures, nor did she wish too.

She really hated the cold.

Benedict didn't not notice Moana sitting by the fire, but his focus was so single-minded that he almost forgot she was there. When she answers his formless complaining, he starts a little, and glances at her blearily over the edge of the blanket he's wrapped around himself.

"But these buildings don't even have centralized heating," he whines. If she ever tried to point out he was whining, he'd deny it vehemently, but it's true.

Benedict has always considered himself a very hale and hearty kind of person. Being warriorborn, it's simply been in his nature to be more resilient and stronger than the rest of his peers. Being on the Surface has negated every one of those instincts at the moment, it seems, because he feels awful and it's horrible. He'd take back the sharp teeth and vertical pupils in a heartbeat if it meant he wasn't as affected by inclement weather.

Moana looked towards the fire, watching as the flames licked up the side of the wood. She was always surprised at how often she thought of tongues and teeth when she watched fire, like the heat was somehow alive, wanting to devour more than it's given.

"It's a good thing we have a fire." She spoke in a dreamy voice before turning back towards Benedict. "Someone cut a lot of wood. We should be fine."

Moana didn't mind complaints. She was used to placating those in her village and comforting someone who was uncomfortable had become second nature to her. Moana disliked the cold but complaining about it only did so much to help with the dagger like feeling that followed the plummeting temperatures.

"I might sleep by the fire." She really didn't do well in the cold and while she had a fur lined cloak that she'd been given, it wasn't as warm as a fire.

Benedict's thoughts stray in a very similar direction when he thinks about fire, his palms itching with phantom pains from scars he no longer bears. Necessity results in him tending the Inn's fires more often than not, and he spent a large portion of the summer chopping firewood and stacking it under the eaves of the building so it would dry properly in time for winter — a suggestion from Mr Watney that Benedict had taken at face value, trusting his friend and fellow beekeeper's knowledge over his own — even though to him it still seems like the most appalling waste of a precious resource. He has to remind himself nearly daily that wood is plentiful down on the Surface, that the fact he's sitting on wooden chairs and sleeping in a wooden bed and treading across forgiving, creaking wooden floors does not mean he's living in the lap of luxury.

Sometimes he thinks he's entirely forgotten what it feels like to have Spirestone beneath his feet.

He tears his thoughts away from the red-hot pain in his hands, at odds with his frigid fingertips, and the phantom smell of charred paper and burning flesh to focus instead on the dark curls of the girl beside him.

There's a part of him that wants to solve her problem, but there's nothing he can do. It's not like he can extend an invitation to huddle for warmth under his own blankets. Moana is not his cousin Gwen, with whom he's shared a bed in the most platonic sense before, nor is she his wife, with whom his bed-sharing is far less platonic. So instead he just grimaces at her sympathetically.

"It is times like this I am even more grateful for my Kate," he replies. Between the two of them, Benedict is the one who runs hot enough to act as a personal heater, but still. Kate does her part to help combat the chill of the bed, and he's more grateful for that than he'd like to admit.

Moana's thoughts weren't as dark as Benedict's. She thought of home but she recalled the bright light of the sun as it filtered through the clouds and the gleaming shimmering effect that it cast on the crystal clear blue water. She thought of the palm trees and the flowers; bright colors and thin towering plants that combined in a kaleidoscope of sights and smells. Her village was always active, with younger children running around while the older members of the village set to work. Everyone worked with a smile, offering help when it seemed that someone was struggling.

Then her thoughts drifted to the ocean which was a stark contrast against the flickering flames in front of her. She wanted to see it, be near it, but with this snow she couldn't make it pass the breach.

Her head turned towards Benedict when he spoke again, her lips curling into a warm smile. "Yeah? I cuddle up with Itiiti but he's getting so big that when he rolls onto me I can't breath." She laughed at the memory though she had waken up feeling that she was about to have a heart attack that night.

"I have a lot of blankets too. I'm not really cold but I'm used to my island. The temperatures there weren't as drastic as they are here."

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"the snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches." -- e. e. cummings

LEAVING THE INN

BACK AT THE INN

.leaving the inn.

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Back at the Inn

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