closed.

[propulsion]

WHO: Tony Macaroni Stark, Dickdickerson
WHAT: Bros being pals (pejorative)
WHEN: Late Drakonis
WHERE: Free Marches
NOTES: Unbridled sexual tension

It only isn't raining because it has just finished raining. The clouds above are taking a big deep breath before the next deluge, and kids, that's just science.

And it's a Free Marches special, being somehow both cold as well as muggy, the air heavy with moisture while layering a chill over everything. When Tony catches a trickle of wet down the side of his neck, he is not entirely sure if he secreted it on his own or not, banishing it with a broad rub of his hand, before returning to his task.

They're not so far outside of Kirkwall. Northwards, but out of reach from the main body of significant Imperial presence, still sheltered in the southern-side of the Vimmarks, within the heavy blanket of forested foothills. Half a day's worth of travel more and they'll be there, investigating whatever triggered the signal it had sent back. For now, the sun is scooting fast for the horizon. Tony had said something like I know a spot, hopefully safe from flooding and landslides.

Appears to be. But everything is wet. Tony had done his part on his way in, ferreting out some kindling-sized pieces of dry wood out the bottom of a splintered tree, sized variously and sitting in a pile next to him while he frays down a likely piece into little thread-y fibres, being a little precious about the prospect of splinters in the doing as he frets at it with a small knife.

"Do you have ghosts or ghost stories, where you're from?"

It is spoken as a binary, the question being one or the other, rather than multi-choice.