#baronyofthesilverwolf

Some time passes as they continue down the standing stone path.

The route remains quiet and uneventful, with the weathered markers continuing to guide them steadily downhill through patches of snow and bare stone.

Aside from the strange stillness hanging over the valley, nothing else of note seems to happen...

"Should we sing French marching songs as we go or something?"

"I don't speak French." Art remarks, "Though I can read it, with the proper bunks."

"Dude, you're a Beaumayn, you should totally learn French... might help you woo the damsels too," Madern suggests.

Thistle wonders why Art is a little slow to respond. And why Madern was talking a little slowly. Probably just the cold. Maybe they should stop for coffee.

Madern notices as he speaks that the breath crystalizing in the cold before his lips seems to linger... just a little too long before dissapating after each breath.

Art, meanwhile, notices absolutely nothing wrong. In fact, he seems to not have heard Madern, then comments, “Hm?” He blinks, then smiles faintly. “Sorry. I was just thinking this place is actually rather peaceful.”

"It is kind of nice but ..." He breathes out again, "We got problems. Anyone else feel like we walked into a deep freezer room where they store meat?"

He watches the crystals... while not the same, it does remind him of the dangers of being in a freezer room.

It's just his normal breath turning to fog as it does on any cold morning... but it fades away more slowly than it ought to.

She rubs her hands together and glances at Citrine. The never is KIND of a canary...

Tick... ... Tick... ... Tick... ...

She still has most of the candy left, and takes lick every few moments, clearly... savoring it?

Thistle's hands don't feel any colder, the gloves are very well insulated.

Though, she MAY think fondly of her forge, it IS chilly here.

"Timing is off... " Cooking involves timing, yes. "Like... that Chronos stuf the Baroness can do..." He kens around.

"We know we're headed into... something magic. And if you think about amber, itself, it's sap, which is slow, that's fossilized, so even slower, so, like, magic amber fruit?"

Without even a clickety clack, Madern can feel that a low hum of glamour surrounds them, not surprising, they ARE in the near dreaming. He may try a perc + greymare roll to try to figure out more about what the magic is, though this may not be his forte.

"Might be that time itself is sap."

/roll 6

Much as he hates to admit it, Danica did teach him stuff about awareness and piecing clues, even magical ones.

Madern can tell there is something wrong with the tone of it.

It reminds him, oddly enough, of a kitchen lesson he once stumbled into while Marigold and Lady Nadeen were working together on one of the Steward's ambitious culinary projects. Marigold had been furious because a delicate sugared cream kept collapsing before it could be folded into the rest of the dessert, and Nadeen had finally stepped in with one of her Winter workings.

Not freezing it or even really chilling it. Just... holding it exactly where it was.

The cream had stopped melting. The sugar had stopped settling. Even the steam rising from nearby dishes had seemed to linger in place a little too long around it. Everything in that section of the kitchen had grown quieter and slower until Marigold could finish the work at her own pace, as even Boggan quickness hadn't let her fix this dish alone.

This feels uncomfortably similar - not cold for the sake of cold, but motion gently persuaded to become... still.

"Stasis, like the urns kind of ...winter magic, not cold... calm, stillness..." He looks to Thistle and Art.

Art says, placidly, "We should stop for a rest."

"Thistle, we're losing Art, please tell me you're still with us?"

"We should not. Ain't you seen the Wizard of Oz and the poppies?"

She reaches for the sidhe's hand and tugs him up to walk beside her.

Thistle takes Art’s hand and pulls him back into motion.

For a moment there is resistance. Not from the Sidhe exactly, but from the space he is occupying, as if the idea of him stopping there had begun to settle into place, and doesn't want to release it's hold.

He exhales, slowly, and the fog remains in front of his lips, forming a word that doesn't quite make it out.

She scowls. "Quit that."

He does, in fact, quit. His eyes remain on her, unblinking, and mouth is still in that same pursed shape, a question unasked.

Tick.

"Let's get out of here" He tries to help Pull Art.

Her spirals shift, fading into yellow. "Art, stop foolin!"

As Madern adds to the pull, there is more resistance, then something quivers, and... pops, like a soap bubble.

Art blinks as he is drawn forward, the placid expression breaking slightly as his attention snaps to the present.

"...Yes, but there aren't any flowers here, only ice and rocks, and those evergreen trees." He finishes. Then,

“Oh,” he says, as though he has just remembered where he is walking.

Something in the air seems to loosen!

Tick... ... tick... .. tick... tick.. tick. Tick. Tick Tick Tick Tick. Citrine has returned to her steady rhythm.

Art looks down the path ahead. “I think I… spaced out for a moment?" He gives a huff of breath, and the fog puffs out and dissipates at a normal rate.

The path continues it's steady turns downhill, but now it feels a little easier to continue on.

"You were frozen in a time bubble like a Dr. Who episode and us without a sonic screwdriver, Dude."

She keeps a very firm grip on Art's hand. Just in case.

He rubs the back of his neck. Even through the scarf, it felt like the little hairs were raising there. "Does anyone else get the feeling like we're being watched?"

Art glances up at the trees, but nothing seems visible there. In fact, it's very quiet. No birdsong, not even the hoot of an owl, as now the sun is just starting to dip behind the tree line. Strange, it wasn't moving before.

"We probably are?" She shrugs. "We're not doing anything wrong."

"Good morning, oh and in case I don't see ya, good afternoon, good evening, and good night!" Madern waves around as he quotes an old Jim Carrey movie. Well, they're all old, the actor is like SUPER ancient, from the 20th century and shit.

They move down into the basin and the pines begin to give way to different trees, older and less uniform, their branches holding snow in soft, even layers that do not quite match the surrounding forest.

The air is still and quiet in a deeper way now, sound carrying cleanly but softly, without echo as their feet crunch softly into snow that is otherwise clean and unmarked.

Ahead, the trees gather into a loose outer ring - beyond, a faint steady light can be seen through the branches.

Madern pulls out a pair of binoculars and looks through them. Most of the time they are useful, sometimes they get a 'pervert complaint' from a nosey old lady... but when you're a Private Dick whose food truck money isn't paying for the leather on your shoes , you take what tools you can.

And he looks at the faint light... before wondering if Binoculars even WORK In the Dreaming?

It is a warm glowing light, and a shape moves within, perhaps beckoning, or waiting. He can make out that the trees within seem to have more color to them, though it's almost like looking through a faded or colored lens, foggy and unclear.

They get the feeling they may have to go in to really see what's going on.

"I think we may be here." Remarks Art, his curiousity already moving him forward, though Thistle still has him in hand.

"Das is Uber Never" he mutters but then says "Actually I don't know what the light is..." He takes the binoculars down, unaware of the black rings around his eyes that they have left behind. Exactly which pooka will be to blame for this will be a subject for much debate one is sure. Unaware, he looks at the others, "You think we're at the right spot?"

"There is really only one way to find... out..." Art trails off, and covers his mouth for a moment. Not in stasis this time, but restraining a chuckle.

She slowly nods, then raises an eyebrow at Art.

He tilts his head towards Madern.

A look, and she does NOT repress the snort at seeing Madern.

"What?" says the detective of the group.