(I am so tempted to make a Sperm Whale Man)
what.
The furnace finishes its cycle, and you pop open the catch. Inside is a multitude of ashes, more than you can carry, and more that can come from just Doc Mitchell. You end up scooping up a handful of ashes and awkwardly scattering them over the ruins of his house. Most of it sticks to your hands, and you end up rubbing Doc Mitchell all over your pants.
"
From dust and ashes I have called you, and to dust and ash you shall return." Those few words are about all you can muster, a vague memory of sincerity and honor. Of shared pain. "Thank you for your help. I hope you are at peace."
You turn towards the north, contemplating. There's a slight pressure flowing, almost like a breeze, or small pulse of energy. You assumed this meant that those were the poles and didn't question it. There is no such energy from the east and west, except for what spreads from the north. You put it out of your mind, and with one final look at the charred remains of Doc Mitchell's life, you set out on the trail.
[5]The boots are uncomfortable on the rough gravel path, ill-fitting as they are. But the time passes quickly as you lose yourself in vague thought. Mostly about food. About half an hour later, or near as much as you can tell, you take a rest. Not out of any need to rest, you feel as if you could walk for a long time, but more to take in a view from one of the hills.
The land is a multitude of browns and light greens, broken by hardy [cypress-analogues] that stay crouched low against the billowing wind. A few small streams dot the country-side, flowing down from the mountain ranges, carving out rocky valleys from the rough, dark stone. The mid-day humidity is oppressive, and the duster doesn't help much. Clouds form in response to the rising heat.
[...]
The trail winds across the sides of hills, and you come to a crest of a valley.
Nestled around an electric well lies a small village. Most of the houses are metal and wood shanties, but a few more significant buildings dot the layout. The three structures all look similar, probably made from the same kit. The first has a bottle in garish neon, the haphazard scrawl adjusting itself for you to read 'Hausman's Public Haus." The second is a more somber structure. It bears no label or name. The third sits next to a mine dug into the wall of the valley. It belches smoke into the air, with laborers milling about their daily tasks.
The gravel footpath gives way to one sealed with tar as you make your way into town. A few people, dressed conservatively in browns and grey, give you a wide berth as you pass them. You realize that you stick out like a sore thumb in the duster. When you arrive at the village square, you notice the market, clustering around the well.
The big, unmarked building, you realize, is a church or temple of some kind. Its doors are lodged open, and the inside is brightly lit, but dull, consisting of wooden benches and motifs too far away for detail.
The market is filled with vendors, all clustering their stalls around immense beasts with bright white fur, four legs, and curling horns. The sizes vary from man-sized to absolutely massive, nearly as big as two stalls combined. The shopkeeps call out to the crowd, showing off their wares. Guns, food, spices, cloth, keepsakes, knick-knack, and brick-a-brack all abound. One thing that catches your eyes is a mask salesman, hawking off cheap plastic masks, demons and bugs-- you shudder.
The public house is further away from the square, but crowds of people surround it, mingling in tight, quiet groups.
You don't remember who you are.
You are sad.
This feels too familiar, a haunting deja-vu.
You are hungry.
Your side hurts, and blood stains your bandages.
Over Body:
A charred black, brown, armored duster. Torso:
An oversized, grey shirt. (hidden)
Lower Body:
Faded blue scratchy, canvas pants.(hidden)
Feet:
Woolen socks(hidden)
Feet:
A pair of leather boots.
Side: A wrapping of bloody bandages.(hidden)
In Belt: A burned knife.