Far Away From Home

 

 Vuron attempted to meditate for the half-day's journey to the House of Bel'tath's land.

Every time he attempted to find the cold, calm center of the storm, he found himself back in the nightmare of previous minds. Previous fights.

The pilot snarled at him to disembark while he hovered. Apparently he didn't want to land in a snowbound jungle.

Vuron shivered once he landed. He settled into the brush; thrusters whipped air around him as the pilot disappeared again. For a long moment, the cold and the snow wiped out everything else in his mind. Bone searing cold. Lips ached. Needles pricked eyes.

He shrugged deeper into the borrowed furs, leather, and metal. He tugged up the fur lined hood, grateful he wouldn't loose his ears to the wind before he lost his sanity. Vuron even found fur lined gloves in one of the many deep pockets. Damn that Chijqa. He thought of everything.

While the cold still bore a hole of sanity, he swung his bat'leth over his shoulder and chose a direction to start walking.

The respite lasted in the halflifes.

Vuron let his conscious mind fall away. Out here, in the wilds, he had no need to fight it any longer. He ran. He struck out. He fought.

His blood sung with it. He existed for the blood on his blade. For the profound pain within his own minds eye.

Hours... Days...