Mountains, mountains, his sweet mountains. The air here was raw and fresh; if one breathed too hard, it could cause bronchitis or other colds; he was prepared for that, of course. A jacket up to his neck and a scarf over his mouth covering his nose as well. God... that was cold. He hadn't remembered an autumn this chilly in a long time. Maybe this Christmas he'd stay in Liverpool if it got any more frosty. He wasn't an Eskimo or a fool to voluntarily barricade himself in a snowy cabin in the middle of nowhere... Well God knows if he'd even be allowed to turn off for a while at Christmas, if Laswell called to say the army wanted him, he'd have no choice but to bundle up his packs and hit the road.

He sighed a little, a puff of steam escaping his mouth, forming a little wet crust on his scarf that was quickly freezing. And then... he heard twigs crunching, leaves rustling, and pebbles rolling. Someone was approaching, and it didn't look like they were trying to be quiet in any way. There wasn't a cottage colony for miles around, this part of the forest was purely him and the occasional gamekeeper.

He opened the cottage door and pulled out his shotgun, it felt strangely heavy in his hands. It was odd to be holding a gun in this place... it seemed almost wrong. But he'd made plenty of enemies in his lifetime, and it was never a bad thing to just be a little more careful.

Well, then a figure came rushing out from behind the trees. He frowned and lowered his weapon a bit.

"Holy shit," he grunted. You had a pretty smashed face. You couldn't have been more than twenty. Your clothes ragged, more for the city, definitely not for the wildlife that was around here. How did you get here...?