#winter wilds

@under-the-programming

The snow seems almost different in this land. Less...dominion-like, maybe.

Still the whiteness falls heavily, bright and unsullied as the flakes are thrust along by the insistence of winter wind. Few things disturb the pale expanse below are, mostly just fallen limbs, those that were evidently too weak to withstand the gales and weather.

To be weak is a crime, a dysfunction, one that forever heralds failure and punishment. 

T8 knows such nearly so well as he does the heft of a blade.

Unnecessary thoughts. A distraction from the current objective. One that T8 is almost upon. There is a shape he can barely see as he moves through these high branches, the slide of his feet against frigid bark swallowed by the wind. Soon the mawing entrance of the cavern becomes clear, and T8 wastes no time in leaping to a sturdy branch closer to its level. There he drops to hang from gloved hands, the force from his leap carried through. He swings and releases, the bitter assault of wind barely assuaged by his mask and eye wear.

The rock foundation is a brief shock though his flesh, but nothing worse than T8 had expected. He allows the momentum to carry him, rolling over his shoulder, coming to rest with one knee to the ground and his other foot to the side, ready to leverage up and away should he need to. His blade is already free of its sheath and gripped, even though this cavern is to be free of hostiles and non-combatants.