[closed] homeward bound

[underpinnings]

WHO: Owen Prichard
WHERE: Grasslands, Old Corrals
WHEN: May 10 and onward
OPEN TO: Oliver Queen
WARNINGS: N/A

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Owen lifts his foot up from the mossy rocks around the spring, and puts it down in dry grass.

He stumbles the next step forward, boots acclimating to the flat, solid earth, his senses adjusting from the rustling forest to the open wind and sun of a wide field. Sucking in a deep breath, he blows it out, arms coming up and shoulders hunching, elbows slightly out. All of him braced as his eyes clear and he realizes--he's travelled miles in a single step.

Another breath, one more. Each slower and steadier than the last. Weird shit happens here: at least he's not underwater this time. At least he feels more or less the same, in his clothes and with his bow slung over one shoulder.

Lost space; maybe not so much lost time.

Looking around, he has some bearings--he recognizes the shapes on the horizon, a few of the mountain ranges he'd seen on the trek with Karen. Once he gets his heart rate down and his feet moving again, he can pick a direction based on that, or--

To his left, he hears running water, can see the dip in the land where it might slope into a stream. Likely as not, it'll lead to the river they crossed to get the moss, and he knows the way back from there. Maybe he'll find out what those flying snakes taste like; it's a long enough walk that he'll need something, unless he can find one of those nuts they accidentally fed to the antlered buffalo that dragged them home.

Looking to his right, he sets the question of how and how far aside for a moment. One post set into the earth draws his eye to another, and the detris resolves into segments of a fence. A little further beyond, a lean-to stands somewhat intact against the wind.

Cover won't hurt, while he finds a way to keep his sanity clutched tight in both hands. He feels better slinging the bow down his arm and nocking an arrow; no telling what might already be using the structure to escape the wind.

Comments

[viridescere]

Oliver has been in situations like this before. He's woken up disoriented, unsure of place and time. This time, at least, he's got the benefit of his feet in solid boots and a bow slung across his back. It's not the hi-tech compound bow he's used to from Star City and the arrows are wood and too few but it's something.

He hears a rustling nearby and cautiously approaches it, unsure if it's another person or if it's an animal. He isn't exactly certain of his bearings just yet but he knows the mountains, at least, and thinks he should put them at his back to start getting toward home.

"Who's there," he calls out, just loud enough to be heard. He reaches a hand back and touches the fletching of an arrow, brushes his fingers against it to reassure himself.

[underpinnings]

There's distance on the sound, enough that Owen places it beyond the lean-to, not inside of it. It seems empty enough to regroup under, once he places the voice and its intent, so he follows his sidelong circle of the structure on a wider loop, until he catches sight of the man beyond it.

Not known, but familiar enough. Another villager.

Owen's arrow, while still nocked, stays loose and aimed at his feet. Whatever this is, it isn't throwing him into these fields alone. "Looks like we're both caught up in something new," he calls, amicably enough, with an dip of his head for the man's own weapon, and the practice of his gait. Not as much one to babysit, if they don't run afoul of a new threat.

[viridescere]

"Looks like. I haven't ever had this happen before." Not here in the village, anyway, but that doesn't mean it's any less real. Oliver knows that the key to keeping himself together is being able to pull his identity together quickly enough to focus on other things so once he's aware that he's of sound mind and body, he focuses on the outside factors.

"Those mountains put us east of the village, right? If we track west, we ought to make our way back without running into too much trouble."