Steve Rogers (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
paragon) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2016-12-02 02:22 am
paragon) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2016-12-02 02:22 am
Entry tags:
And it's real bad news
WHO: Steve Rogers
WHERE: The Windemere
WHEN: Morning of November 25
OPEN TO: Annie Cresta
WARNINGS: Only current plot, will edit if necessary.
STATUS: Closed
Steve's been spending less time in the woods since the onset of the snow. Not that he's abandoned his one-man logging operation entirely — he doesn't know what he'd do with himself if he didn't having something to keep his mind and body occupied, something useful, and they're gonna need as much wood as they can get — but maneuvering both his body and fallen trees through the snow means more effort, means he gets tired quicker. Not as quickly as a normal man, but still sooner than he'd like, emerging from the woods with his haul usually not long after midday. That still leaves a lot of hours to fill before sundown.
It hadn't been a problem yesterday, between arriving early at the inn as usual to find the feast, and somehow finding himself trying to convince Natasha not to abscond with all the candles, and then the woman's, Karen's, death. There had been plenty of work to do after that, though Steve still rises early, finally cleaning himself up as soon as he has the light to do so, and it's still far from mid-morning before he makes his way to the outskirts of the village.
He doesn't think anyone will have told them yet; they'd left, unsurprisingly, long before dark, though he'd been glad to see them at the inn for as long as they had stayed. He also knows they didn't go back to the woods. As much time as he spends out there himself, he would see them if they were still around. He figured weeks ago that they'd found a better place for the winter, survival taking precedence over paranoia, and there's only one house out here that he's seen lately with smoke rising from its chimney. He climbs the steps to the door, cautious of any boobytraps, and raises a hand to knock.
"Annie, it's Steve," he says to the painted wood, breath fogging the air in front of it.
WHERE: The Windemere
WHEN: Morning of November 25
OPEN TO: Annie Cresta
WARNINGS: Only current plot, will edit if necessary.
STATUS: Closed
Steve's been spending less time in the woods since the onset of the snow. Not that he's abandoned his one-man logging operation entirely — he doesn't know what he'd do with himself if he didn't having something to keep his mind and body occupied, something useful, and they're gonna need as much wood as they can get — but maneuvering both his body and fallen trees through the snow means more effort, means he gets tired quicker. Not as quickly as a normal man, but still sooner than he'd like, emerging from the woods with his haul usually not long after midday. That still leaves a lot of hours to fill before sundown.
It hadn't been a problem yesterday, between arriving early at the inn as usual to find the feast, and somehow finding himself trying to convince Natasha not to abscond with all the candles, and then the woman's, Karen's, death. There had been plenty of work to do after that, though Steve still rises early, finally cleaning himself up as soon as he has the light to do so, and it's still far from mid-morning before he makes his way to the outskirts of the village.
He doesn't think anyone will have told them yet; they'd left, unsurprisingly, long before dark, though he'd been glad to see them at the inn for as long as they had stayed. He also knows they didn't go back to the woods. As much time as he spends out there himself, he would see them if they were still around. He figured weeks ago that they'd found a better place for the winter, survival taking precedence over paranoia, and there's only one house out here that he's seen lately with smoke rising from its chimney. He climbs the steps to the door, cautious of any boobytraps, and raises a hand to knock.
"Annie, it's Steve," he says to the painted wood, breath fogging the air in front of it.