When the striking red sun of dawn appeared in Jack Fliften Aplen's foggy eyes, birds chirped all around in high and low tones, the whistling of the wind caused his long ears to ring, and the crisp cold air continued to nip at his frost bit skin. He flexed his fingers and could not feel a thing. He fell asleep in the midst of a coniferous forest. He already knew he was in Gishmimimis, but in what part?
A breath of panic escaped his throat as Fliften lifted himself to a sitting position. His hands fumbled at his person, groping for any kind of compass or map or device of direction-keeping, and when he ran his fingers over one of the pockets on his long brown and gold-trimmed coat, he could hear the crinkling of paper. After two immediate tries shoving his hand into said pocket to retrieve what was making the noise, he did. The paper he pulled out was folded up, so he unfolded it into something larger. It was a map! But was it of this region specifically?
Fliften's pea green gaze groped the lines, the familiar lettering, and the colours of the map. His deduction came to one simple truth: this was the Zanbane Forest, northeast of the underground city of Patoste. Then, he noticed something about the map. Where Mt. Rorla, Gishmimimis's third tallest stratovolcano, should be, there was a hole burned through. Perhaps it was his way of marking the map rather than the conventional manner of inking. Either way, he could not remember what happened last consciousness; if he had, it would have been far too dark to see, hence having to burn the map with a potential source of light needed.
He shifted his attention from the map to his right side. On the ground was a branch, black as charcoal at the end. He reached for it and grabbed a hold of it, fingers still numb to the touch. The tip of the branch fit the burn hole in the map.
Fliften was traveling, on foot, from the city of Owoshu to the city of Patoste to meet up with a mercenary under his watch. Thinking about this, he internally smiled. The mercenary had a insensitive reputation, and business with him usually leads to an outpaced quickrun. He lifted himself to his boots that were shinchapped, his coat discharging dust, gravel, dirt, and what appeared to be small amounts of soot. His knees ached, and he could not take a step forward without the proper determination. A bead of sweat developed on his forehead and fell over his nose like a tear, falling to the cold, hard, dusty ground. For a lush coniferous forest, this part of it was torrid and stark of underbrush.
With a stubborn huff of breath, Fliften pushed west in hopes of meeting this mercenary. It is a good thing the north doesn't have teeth.