All Washed Up (Open)

[Arkamedis]

His eyes drifted open slowly, and he coughed up a great deal of water. His stomach ached, his lungs burned, and it seemed as though every breath he drew in was stabbing him as he inhaled. With the last bit of strength that surged through his veins he managed to pull himself a few feet up on the shore. His face met with the viciously biting snow, and all was blackness in his head. He was slowly dying, having washed up on the southern shores of Gobaith..

If seen in the snow and approached, one would see a young man in his late teens or early twenties. He has red, blood-stained wrists as though they were bound together for a long period of time and his clothes are gray, torn, and soaking wet.

[Caynwyn]

Passing Greenbriar a couple of days ago Cay's travels gradually lead her toward the southern shores west of Briar Woods as her bag begins to fill with herbs. Wearing a simple blouse and skirt yet a thick cloak to ward off the morning chill she begins to hum a small tune only stopping when spying a particularly rare herb. Beginning to get lonely, wanting to see her friends and particularly Felix she glances at the path already traversed debating whether to retrace her steps or hunt a little more as weather permits. Throwing one hand on her forehead looking up at the bright sun, distracted only momentarily, a branch unseen in the path lands her face first in the snow amid bright sparkles of flakes rising up in the air briefly before settling on top.

Quickly rising unhurt sputtering a little snow from her mouth she brushes off melting snow from her cloak yet the day now seems much colder. Remembering a clear area not far ahead that would be safe to build a fire, Cay walks as quickly as her petite body will allow muttering to herself...

Just enough logs to dry off, then I am going home and....

Yet the last word turns into a gasp seeing the man laying still in the snow while feet automatically rush toward him. Kneeling down, Cay only briefly gazes at the blood stained wrist while her hand brushes some hair and snow from his face all the while speaking softly.

I am a druid, can you hear me, can you move?

Removing her cloak as a biting wind picked that moment to swirl across the snow, she shivers throwing it over the man then places a blanket under his head throwing another over her shoulders before setting a log carefully on the ground and crossing her fingers briefly muttering to herself.

Please light!

[Arkamedis]

"Through the darkness he began walking. Aimlessly as his thoughts wandered about inside his mind in a similar fashion. All around him was black. Everything was void of light. He was cold, extremely cold, and his teeth began to chatter. With all of the energy he could muster, he attempted a yell but only received a low, dull grunt. As he continued walking, a light began to appear on the horizon, growing whiter and whiter as he approached.. Until he found himself engulfed in it."

His eyes fluttered open slowly, he could hear someone speaking to him. He looked up, and saw a woman building a fire nearby. His muscles still ached, and he barely managed to sit himself up straight before looking to her. His black hair is cut short, and sits messily atop his head at the moment. His skin is pale, as though he'd not seen the sun in many months yet it seems tough like someone who's spent days working. His black hair is accented by his creamy colored, almost white looking eyes.

His gaze moved over the woman slowly. "Where am I?" He asked before letting his head sink down to rest on his knees. He was obviously exhausted.

[Caynwyn]

With dark eyes glancing briefly at the forest behind...was it just her imagination or did a twig snap? Distracted from her worries and the burgeoning fire by the man suddenly sitting up, she hesitates only briefly before walking toward him. He may become aware of her petite height with a fragile build and long dark hair falling past her shoulders occasionally thrown back haphazardly with her hand. Stopping to pick up her dropped cloak laying it on his shoulders as she gives him a warm smile.

You are on Gobaith, I am Cay.

Picking up the blanket used as a pillow, Cay attempts to throw that over his back as well then reaching out to the fire sets her cauldron on top having filled it with water. A pouch with brown leaves is pulled from her bag then is wrapped in a thin, clean edge of a bandage before dropping it in the water to steep.

I have a tea may give you a little energy but sorry, I only have apples to eat. Are you hurt somewhere besides your wrists?

Holding out some apples for him, her gaze travels from his rather strange colored eyes to his wrists as she pulls out more bandages possibly preparing to treat his injuries.

[H.Banestone]

"Damn, son of a..." - his wind chipped lips mutter a list of obscenities as a sharp twig stabs him in the heel through the boot.

Picking the twig out and discarding it, the man surveils around himself, his keen nose, long and frozen, picks up the scent of burning logs. Must be someone nearby.

Going towards the scent, he soon sees light of a campfire, but not much movement around it. His feral round eyes fix on the forest, and his sensitive ears grow tense and curious, he makes it through the bushes, stepping softly, his right hand coming up to his shoulder and wrapping on the hilt of a large sword.

Having assessed the inhabitants of the camp, he relaxes his posture, lowers his hands, straightens out, and enters the clearing, coming out of the bushes.

He is a tall man of moderately slim complection as far as the wide shoulder guards of his studded black longcoat allow to tell. His face is rough, sharply chiseled and wind chipped, full of scruffy black stubble, and ungroomed straight falling thick black hair. He is definitely not a handsome one, and his dark eyes are open widely and seem more to belong to a wild creature. He appears to be heavily armed, carrying a complex system of baldric sets over the coat, attached to a sliding rack behind his back with three long blades sheathed in it on the right, a short sword on his belt for a left draw, and a dagger at the right hip.

He speaks up with a harsh rasp voice, ruined by a cold:

"'Ello. Can I sit down at yer camp? My boot's damaged and needs mending."