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Breathtaking altitude gives some clarity to the mind, especially when the evergreen forests lie quiet under a heavy curtain of winter. Mount Washington may be the highest peak in the Northeast, but the surrounding hills are just as high and suitable for their remoteness relative to New York, Boston, and the other cities of the densely populated corridor. Here a person can lose themselves in the needle-trimmed trails, walking among the fresh powder and ice dumped in recent weeks, without another soul to see for hundreds of yards. Tracks might show where a cross-country skier passed, or a snowshoer, but these interruptions are few and far between in the backcountry. Those winding trails take some effort to traverse above the well-groomed runs and the familiar roads where locals slink among the woods, which is perfectly fine for someone who can fly and someone else used to much more forbidding mountains than these ancient, eroded knobs once as high as the Himalayas.
The bohemian is finally dressed up against the cold, enveloped from throat to feet in layers suitable for skiing. The ski jacket, most definitely, manages to follow modern couture and lack of bulk, her boots might as well be on an Arctic expedition, and her scarf happily flaps around behind her. Add a knit hat over her red hair, and she's fit to be fairly visible in the greenery. "This way," she says after consulting a map of the area, more of a chart. "There should be a cabin about two hundred yards that way up the trail and if we find the wooden bridge, we made it to the right spot."
*
The initial part of the journey, Blackagar had worn the appropriate garb against the elements, but as he had moved further into forest; and more accurately further away from the city, he had began to feel substantially better. The ache of the pollution of the city withered away against the fresh air, the brilliant sun and the purity of the region. Rather than fighting the constant barrage against his entire core ,now he was healing and rejuvenated the way he was meant to be. This of course led to more tolerance and the necessity of stopping occassionally to place his coat into his bag along with gloves and the like, the immunity to weather returning and causing him to feel a bit too warm despite the heavy cold.
Looking up the pass, he nods towards Rogue and gestures with his hand to indicate for her to lead the way, as she has done this journey. His own steps are behind hers, falling to crunch the snow with a larger foot than the one she uses to make the initial step. Certainly his eyes have traveled the landscape, but he has also taken moments to observe the sherpa leading him.
*
Scarlett's ability to plow through the snow demonstrates her to be unusual, if not inhuman, and she takes to the cooler temperatures with a great deal of ease. Light footsteps break a path through the snow drifts, though she still breaks through the crust and sinks up to her knees if not continuously in motion. A few curious birds wing overhead and in the undergrowth, small creatures seek to eat, forever on the move given the need to feed their high metabolisms. They might well be heard, but sound travels and there is precious little interruption otherwise to their idyll. Given how content Blackagar seems, and how hale, she can no doubt measure his enthusiasm by how fast he walks or straight he stands. The odd gust breaks through the cover of the forest, threatening to knock them about. Her smile lasts for a few moments, an omen of patience and amusement both. It's been rare in the past few weeks, the restoration of her classes at Columbia endlessly demanding no doubt.
When they reach a switchback, she pauses to look up the slope in case any sight of the cabin can be found. Alas not. Might as well resort to the good old fashioned method of tree climbing, which she does, taking advantage of a fir and her own strength to shimmy up the trunk and peer further. "Lovely view up here, but the clearing is that way. If we cut off the path, it might be faster. Think you can do it?" She gestures to the right direction, a scramble up a fairly steep incline.
*
Blackagar's eyes drift to the direction that she indicates and a slow smile spreads his lips as he nods. There's a confidence there, a natural one after having spent his time in such an environment his adult life. Reaching to the small writing slate he brought, a much lighter one he etches quickly, «Of course. Can you?» The question is given with a teasing grin and upturned eyebrow. Ok, so maybe he watched her climb the tree as well but now his attention is back on the surroundings and a hand is offered upwards when the descent begins to help her.
*
Already in the tree, Scarlett has to figure out how to get down without any trouble. He is kind enough to offer a hand, so Blackagar shall not be denied; she simply has to slither down the branches and hang upside down from the lowest for him to take her hand, unless he's going to snatch her by the ankle and pull her down to his level. If that happens, so be it; she can right herself before hitting the ground and without kicking him, if the gods are good. If not, then they will make an interesting heap at the base of the pine, who will embed this embarrassment on its rings. "Thank you."
Either way, reaching the ground means an uphill trudge, using hands as much to balance. But the effort is worth it if only to warm up, and after digging through bracken and slipping over fallen logs, deep pockets of snow, and broken branches, the lip of the trail opens into a fairly sizeable clearing occupied by a shabby cabin and a fairly wide space that probably has grass, moss, or meadow flowers in the summer. Her map led her true, and she nods to it, giving a look over the perimeter to assure no bear or tentacled Kree horror might decide to appear.
*
Not seeing tentacles himself; a grateful sight, Blackagar begins now to lead rather than follow with the cabin in sight. It is a protective quality and posture, moving in a way to make sure that any potential landslide or shock that might befall them will strike him first. While making his way he pulls out his pen and etches a quick note to Scarlett, casting a look at her while doing so. «Is this not the same cabin I read about in a horror novel?» The grin, present again, is cast to her before he extends a hand towards her so as not to get too far away in the trudge.
*
Alas, no tentacles. Not unless he brings them himself, the mountain fastness is left to the peace of the unspoiled wilderness. She needn't hang back, but Scarlett looks over the fresh fall of snow for any tracks. None have passed but a few deer and a squirrel or seven, maybe a rabbit, and scarcely anything human. They will be without their own neighbours of the furry and fuzzy kind. "Horror novels? You could write one up here. The Iroquois of the area have their own stories about cannibal ice giants who live here, and soul sucking vampire-like creatures who were evil wizards or the unproperly buried dead. I suppose those would give you inspiration?" She permits him to guide her along, though she's doing just fine. "It is quiet up here, at least, and that helps. Less pressure upon you, less distraction for me."
*
The last steps taken towards the cabin have him hesitating just a moment, checking from the outside the appearance of structural integrity before looking back to her. A careful balancing act occurs as he uses his free hand and the slate at the same time to write out a quick note. «Soul sucking vampires aren't all bad, are they?» He glances to her, eyebrow quirked up before tucking his stuff away and his arm reaches out to knock upon the door, just to check to make sure some hobos haven't settled in.
*
The building is old but snug, given the solid American wood construction common to cabins of the period. The shingled roof is covered in a thick veneer of snow, and the low doorway and windows look intact in all ways. The cheery Nordic print curtains might leave something to be desired, but the red print on a white background is not without its charms. The chimney stands well enough, suggesting the main source of heat is a wood stove or a fireplace proper, and there's a healthy pile of wood under a dingy canvas tarp to the side.
Scarlett reads the slate and arches her eyebrows at Blackagar, trying not to suppress a smirk too hard. "I count as a succubus, I am told. I do not need the blood. Your mythology is woefully out of date, though I suppose that also implies I take it by a given way, which I don't."
The door creaking open shows the standard one room layout, the bed in a loft high near the open beam ceiling. A local company has no doubt provisioned the books and different dishes in the cupboards, the cheap instant coffee - a revelation! - and tinned soups in there. But, still, no monsters jumping out. Neither has there been a resident in the past week. "No monsters. But there was something here."
*
The look of cursory glance is done and with a nod of approval, Blackagar pulls his bag off his shoulders to set it down not far from the door, waiting until Scarlett has entered before he shuts it as well behind them to shield off the cold. Familiar with the survival of cold mountain life, he starts over towards the stove, wood burning and classic, where the previous company had stocked the wood as well which he set to work preparing and getting into the metal object to have it begin emitting heat after work to tempt the embers to life. The process does take some time, during which Blackagar focuses on his task, only casting a glance at Scarlett when there was a window to do such. He arches an eyebrow at her.
*
The young woman hauls in a few pieces of chopped and split wood, not freshly done. She juggles them with some difficulty and then puts them down by the stove, a rather handsome thing one can easily turn into a source of heat, a cooking surface, and a place to burn one's enemies. Provided those enemies are, say, chipmunks. Not so much for an ox. Still, she aids Blackagar in that business, and shows no capacity for igniting fire with her fingertips, short of holding a lighter. "It seemed a good place to start a search. This is but an hour's flight from New York for me, at most," she cheerfully notes, "so if you require anything, it's easy enough to get to a town along the way." His quirked question brings no blush to her cheeks; it may well be this is a day trip as far as the redhead is concerned, or he can draw his own conclusions on how he's staying warm in the middle of the night. "You are tired already? I thought you found this invigorating."
*
There's a pause, a small hint of red at his cheeks but he shakes his head. With the flames beginning to grow, Blackagar steps away from the stove to let it warm on its own and cast the heat about. He makes his way instead for the writing slate and starts to etch upon it, the sound of the chalk being a bit more noteworthy in the extreme quiet of the mountain cabin. «Not tired. Just amused. Why would one want to fly back and miss the excitement of walking through the freshness?» Setting it down, he goes to cabinets to check supplies over before going to find a chair to settle down in, a study given towards Scarlett now that he has sat.
*
The blushing gives her pause as Scarlett tips her head, and then settles her hands upon her hips. "I have courses, and obligations eventually to turn in my work. They're usually harder on female students under the notion we are not physically and psychologically up to the challenge, you see. Something about frailer minds and bodies that went on for thirteen hundred years, give or take. You can imagine how much I appreciate that attitude on my professors." She begins unbuttoning and unzipping her coat, freeing herself from its weight, though the gloves can stay put for the moment. They are an essential part of her equipment for the moment. "What do you normally do when you get away from the city? Meditate? Throw snowballs? I am all for something, but I wouldn't wish to disrupt your routine too much. What do you wish to do? Other than hunt monsters." She will be the orbiting moon to that chair, searching through the various cupboards until coming up with a tin of powdered cocoa. It will serve, though without milk, the concoction is a bit thin.
*
Blackagar ponders a bit and then writes for her, watching the scavenging she does in order to find cocoa. «Meditate largely to solidify my mind's barriers. Reflect on what is, what was, and what will be. Read, write poetry and other cliche things. Of course exercise and simply enjoy being without the distractions of the city or busy life. Some distractions are wonderful.» A pointed look is given at that. He reveals the slate and its words before finishing unpacking a few more of his items, including a book from the mess of his bag.
To be continued…