【►】llllllet's play!

its ok mako im dead too

(( oh guys !! and by guys i mean mako !  so i finished your birthday present after like 800 million heckdang years<3 http://www.mediafire.com/download/cjruz835ri9ahwa/happy+birthday+mako.zip))

"Maybe we can kick a tree, see if it'll make a difference." He knew it probably wouldn't, but it was the only thing he could say to counteract Michael's words. After all, he was right in the end-aggression doesn't do shit. Sure helps to stir up a crowd, though. So his method worked. Sort of. Maybe like about 56.7% workage. Yeah. He wondered where Team Gents were, give or take a member. Hopefully not a bajillion miles away, because that would suck major ass. Maybe they'd have to take a boat to reach him, Geoff, and Michael. He'd laugh if Ryan got stuck in it. But given the rolling hills that constituted the three's field of vision, that probably wasn't the case. The long, high ass hills. Damn those hills.

Apropos of nothing, Ryan woke up. Well, to be honest that can't necessarily be called true. More like apropos of something. It might have been the now appropriately angled afternoon sun, or the delicate folding of water down smooth rock, or the ever increasing feeling of detachment to his fingers and toes. As his eyes blearily cleared, a multitude of thoughts inchoating, he observed the foliage above and became smugly aware of the frost lacing the leaves, encroaching but unable to consume the stems, leaving the hearts of each separate and essential denizen of the fir untouched.

Magnificent.

Agreeing, because yes that was true and such a feature of nature should be praised, another far more pressing matter became clear.

Why is there frost on the leaves?

Concern escaped him as his mind came closer and closer to full cognizance. A fir? As much he he adored sudden vacations to climates different from the at times unbearable heat of Austin, Ryan didn't recall arranging a vacation. Hmmm, this could be a problem, but surely not the most pressing of them. Ah well, that would come to him, given time.

Through herculean effort, his head moved from its orientation to the sky until his cheek met grass. Suspicion confirmed. Frost on the grass, breath in the air turning to a vapor with the lifespan of a mayfly, diagnosis doctor? It was fucking cold outside. This was not an Austin temperature. This was not Austin vegetation. Not Austin, then. Which left the question: if he was not in Austin, where was he? Better yet, how had he gotten here?

Ryan jerked upright and onto his feet, arm snapping out to brace against the stable trunk, before he toppled. Lethargy and discombobulation forced him to his knees, and the pins and needles that manifested themselves when he landed on all fours had him hissing with pain. Slowly, deliberately, he flexed his fingers, letting the appendages wake. A deep breath in, a deep breath out, and Ryan righted himself, this time careful to rise slowly. His gaze rose with him, and for the first time since he had awoken he began to process the depth of shit he had found himself in.

Yeah, that had to account for at least a modicum of the temperature gradient.

Ryan pinched himself. Then repeated the action. Nope. It was still there. Well, he couldn't complain about the view. He was looking at a valley with a river snaking below, lush despite the chill, from atop a piece of terraced rock blessed with absurd height, mass, and sudden drops. If he had rolled over instead of standing up, he would have found himself on the edge of such a drop, looking down at a broad ledge below a falling range that he was comfortable with. Pondering the advantage of that many cliffs, his mountain was a defensible location, but not one he needed at the moment.

His fingers drummed absently against the fir trunk, feeling and listening to the accompanying and very real sound of wood. Real. Oh shit. Any vestages of sleepiness fled under the weight of that realization. This wasn't some prank gone to far, or a startlingly realistic dream. The certainty of this new fact was startling.

Why am I so sure this is real?

This was real. This forest, this river, this thrice damned blue sky, the six bizzarely black sheep at the base of the mountain, all of it was real. Panic spawned itself in his stomach and Ryan crushed it ruthlessly before it could prove dangerous. Alright. Alright. He could deal with this. He had to. He couldn't be alone. A gut feeling, a desperate desire, Ryan couldn't bring himself to discount it.

Please let me not be alone.

The ever descending sun, sunset still hours off thank you small victories, forced him to confront the fact that he was alone. So. Survival first. Find the others later. If there were others. No, of course there were. Right. He'd need tools then. He could do that. A deep breath in, a deep breath out. He turned to the aged fir he had woken under, the one with the beautifully frosted leaves, dug his fingers into the bark and pulled. Levering himself up to the less stable branches, Ryan began to break them, keeping the lowering sun in the corner of his eye.

He had the oddest feeling that he didn't want to be so exposed when it had finally set.

Navigating his way down the slopes of the rather intimidating steeple of rock he'd awoken on had proven more difficult than Ryan's initial considerations. Far more difficult. Water wept from the sheer face of the mountain that faced the river, the porous stone as cool as the frost on the leaves that dressed its top betrayed it to be. The chill was...not bad per se. Unfavorable? Yeah. A problem later? The retreating warmth of the sun made that a fucking fact.

It took the better part of one of the scarce few hours left to reach the base. Ryan's toes were numb, his nose itched, and would those damn sheep silence themselves before he did it for them? He turned a stink eye onto the main perpetrator. One of the damn sheep was more vocal than the others, bleating out platitudes as it stumbled in and around the others. Ryan was tempted, oh so tempted, to wring its neck. Not that he could maneuver any closer than he was now, the skittish creatures took two steps back for every one he took forward. Maybe some aromatic weeds, to entice it closer?

A thought for another time.

Rounding the last of the boulders that marked the jagged root of the mountain, Ryan glanced up at the spalls and the wide, sweeping arches they left bereft after they fell. The river sang louder here, a rugged, marbled cry than called for no man. A few steps, and he slipped over the river-rounded stones of the bank, swearing viciously and trudging on to where the fractured stone gave way to water. The shoes he'd woken up in (and this was saying nothing about what had to be a kilt in place of his more logical pants), were frustrating. They had no grip, they had no warmth, they had no style. The sole saving grace was the thick wool socks and the low heel that weren't likely break off as he hiked. They weren't the worst Ryan had ever worn. They weren't the most suitable either.

He sighed, then leaned to pick up two of the stones and knocked them together. The heavy weight and sound were reassuring. If the stones where dense enough, he might be able to use one to shape and sharpen another, weaker rock. He recognized the need to fashion a weapon, as much as he loathed the caveman comparison of welding heavy rocks. While he couldn't afford temerity, cowardice would end in death. Decisions, decisions. There was too much to do and too little time to do it.

He was hungry, dammit. He was tired and cold and lonely and stressed. The water at his feet flowed at a temperature far from tepid, a sip had sent pain into the nerves in his teeth. This area was dangerous, for more reasons than the cold and the approaching night. None of the resources here offered themselves to him. He would have to fight for them. Somehow.

Ryan pondered his future as he gazed at the river stone in his hand. He would have to find greener pastures. But first he would have to survive the frigid night.