manolitode

Don't think I avoid any regions, probably just a few spots where there is an uncalled-for risk of wasting a good run: - Various instant death-spots. - The road through Mountain town. I do like the element of surprise with the short range wolf attacks. But not in interloper, it's 50/50 to have time to pull and fire the bow. And I don't feel motivated to crouch through town or run around waving the torch at every corner. - The broken train track bridge in Ravine. Because why 😅

After merely two months of enjoyable negotiations with @Admin this little survival story has made its way back home from a long and informative journey in the Camping and outdoor activites section of the forum. I think it's worth celebrating with a bump.

The two TLD skills I truly master is: - Voice impression of a fleeing bear: 5 - Voice impression of a fleeing moose: 4 Despite these major advantages in life I would meet the long dark very quickly considering: - Carcass harvesting: 1 - Fishing: 1

Nice ideas. I like the extra difficulty from water freezing, spoiling and being undrinkable when recently boiled. I especially would like water spoiling with time as an incentive to avoid the endgame ocean of plastic bottles. However I see a problem in the inventory with a lot of water types, based on whether they're frozen and spoiled at different % and in addition hot. Like now if you have both dirty and clean water in your inventory you get 2 inventory slots for water. With these extra properties of water I think you could easily end up with 10. If that becomes a hassle it will likely streer players to just make one "type" of water. Do you share my view that, though interesting for adding extra difficulty, the inventory aspect could be a problem. If so, do you have any ideas on how to solve that particular problem?

The torch sways slowly before my eyes. The shoulder straps press hard on my collarbones. My shoulders explode with delight. It goes way faster down the mountainside than uphill. Ouch. I bandage my ankle. Argh. I bandage my wrist. The glimmering snowflakes float gently past my eyes. What's this? An avenue of oak trees? Constituting a heavenly sanctuary in the bleak landscape. I pick up acorns from the ground. The acorn guardian becomes aware of my illicit visit in the firmament. He barks his critical, all-knowing bark, sprinting towards me before suddenly slowing down. I go to the ledge. My knees hurt. But I can't linger. I can see the hut from here. The slope below is steep. I glance back at my pursuer. Guess I could throw my torch on your critical face. Just like the old days. Well not that old, but it feels like ages. I could if I wanted to. But I want to go home. To the hut. To the bed. And rest. I turn my side to the slope and descend, carefully. I reach flat ground. No more descending. No more climbing. Not today. Not in a while. I walk towards the hut. The wind increases forebodingly. No wolf here today, no bear. I walk past the fishing hut, barely noticing the bunnies by the shore. I walk up to the porch, open the door and drop my backpack on the floor. I lie down on the bed. But I don't fall asleep. An hour passes. Maybe more. What's that smell? I sniff my armpit. Am I a human being or a fleshy dustbin? I undress and start a fire in the hearth. The recycled wood from the summit should last for hours to come. I go out in the snow storm and let it shower my sore, foul body. I wash my clothes in the snow, rubbing them in birch bark. I leave them to dry on the floor by the hearth. I craft a few arrows. A fishing tackle. And mend my clothes. I put my house in order. I do have decent winter clothing now. And valuable tools, facilitating my journey. But I still need more pelts. How about a thick, warming bear bedroll for my expeditions? Or a moose jacket for the jacket king? If there's moose around, that is. I don't recall seeing one. I scratch my ribs. I barely notice, I'm starting to feel worse. The mountain excursion has taken its toll on me. My clothes dry. I dry and get dressed. I grab the last pieces of recycled wood and go to the fishing hut. The wind kisses my face. I light the stove. Hack through the ice, blunting the knife. Bass. Whitefish. Black night. More whitefish. The tackle breaks. I carry the cooked fish to the hut and drop them in the snow outside. It'll be enough for a few days. I sit down on the bed. I am worn to the bone. And I am enjoying myself. Maybe a bit too much? Perhaps I should just settle down here? Pick up archery, live off the land and be content? My mind drifts. To the wolf by the trolley, who nearly sent me into the long irreversible dark. To the marauding bear by the stranded ship. Who had the same thing in mind. And to the thin ice, that reached above water to grasp me. Or should I rather move on? And risk everything. I lie down on the bed. Should I? A blizzard ravages outside.

It's a bright new day on the summit. Good morning cargo containers. Good morning pain. I saw through the containers, thus sawing the last drops of juice from the clattering pieces of tissue in my shoulders. I find a wool toque. And crampons. Fashionable yellow earwraps. Medicine. An emergency stim. And food. Lots and lots of food. Half of it spoiled. Besides that, I will leave the mountain with several boxes of matches, a firestriker and a snazzy collection of furs. The joy. The fire crackles. The flames flicker. Day turns into night. I sit by the campfire, munching monotonously on a salty thiamine mononitrate cracker. Sure it's dry but it's still a cracker. Apocalypse dining at its finest. But I ain't the only hungry fella up here. I feed the bonfire another piece of recycled wood from the green pile. Perhaps I should bring some of this wood down to the hut. My shoulders would love that. Here fire, have another. Good boy. I think of Danny. Look at me now brother. Climbing the top of the world, setting the summit on fire. I wish you could see what I see. Feel the pleasures and burdens of accomplishment. I remove my boots and socks and feel my feet. A blister here, a sore there. But that's the price you pay. I stare into the flames, massaging my feet. I think of all my friends out there. Magpie, Raven, Jimmy and Gemma. Patiently awaiting my return at the power plant. And of course, Crow. My loyal bender of car trunks. Not that he's ever bended a car trunk. But that's not the point. I know that he would, had he the chance. Hope all is well in the foul bunker. I think of my dear old cabin. I think of the flames engulfing it. Spitting me out like a bad aftertaste, burping. I think of the briefcases at the crash site. Spread like confetti. The crow feathers. The empty seats in the cabin. The... I stand up and pour the remaining crackers into the fire. I watch them turn black. I crawl into the bedroll and pull the cover over my eyes.

My stomach simmers and coos. I need a break before pulling up the backpack. A nearby cave entrance draws my attention. A corpse leans against the cave wall. I feel dizzy. Another rope on the cave floor. No thanks, I'm feeling just fine. I leave the cave empty-handed. Every pull of the rope feels like rubbing my shoulders from within with glass shards wrapped in sand paper. And nails. I pull my backpack over the edge. But I fail to put it on my back. I just can't lift it. I connect a few wires together and tie them around my stomach with a cord line to the backpack. I walk towards the plane, dragging it through the snow behind me. Come on rucksack. We've been through so much together. We're basically there. Wouldn't want you to miss it. We pass two deep-frozen chaps in the snow by the plane. I feel nauseous. They look like they died from the cold rather than the crash. Are you crew or mountaineers? Silence. Most likely the latter. Lets take a look at the monstrous metal Klondike then. It's a cargo plane. Its back body is fairly intact. Cargo containers and crates await me inside. I pack up the hacksaw and start sawing the contaaaiiiiiiiiii good Jeeesus almighty. I stop, clenching my fists. My shoulders need a vacation. Bad. Like a year-long siesta on a tropical beach. And a warm, gentle massage. And a drink. I guess I could make a fire before opening the containers. I throw a piece of coal in the flames. I build the fire larger and larger from the green wooden crates in the plane. Breaking them hurts, but not as much as sawing. I get warmer and warmer as the sun sinks in the sky. And I'm awfully tired. And sore. I better lie down.

I grab the end of the cobra, staring up towards the ledge. The relentless icily wind spreads the cold all through my body. I clench my jaw. I'm climbing to the end of this rope, even if it's the last thing I do. Mountain, you don't get to win. I am the jacket king, Thor MacKenzie, collector of prybars. I pull lightly at the rope. My shoulder protests. This will ruin my shoulders for a long time. Unless I can spare them somehow. Climb upside down with my feet first? It would look funny for sure but then I would die from internal massive injuries. A lighter backpack perhaps? I unpack all the water, sticks and stones and leave them in the snow. I pick up a mess of cords. Wires, why do I carry you around? Oh well, you never know. I put them back and give the rope another try. Still too heavy. What if I could climb without the backpack? If I tie it to the end of the rope I should be able to pull it up afterwards. I tie a half hitch knot through the shoulder straps and start pulling myself up. One pull. And another. And another. No way, my shoulders are killing me. I slide down, slightly burning my palms. Better but not quite there. I'll need to use my legs. But how? I'm sure I learned this in PA. Time passes. The wind turns gentler. How about...? No. Would it work if...? Nope. What if the rope lies on the vamp of my left boot and I step on it with my right? It creates a plateau, giving my shoulders a short respite before the next pull. That works. I climb all the way up in one go. I pull myself over the ledge, grinding my teeth from the pain. There it is, the kamikaze plane. The high altitude goldmine. My stomach rumbles. My shoulders beg me to throw myself off the mountain. Plane, you better be worth my while.

I wake up with snow on my face. I wipe it off with the back of my hand. I'm hurt. A voice irrupts into the cave, whisking the snowdust. A howling blizzard whips the mountain. Clearly objecting to my presence. You squeamish mountain you. I dazedly grab my bedroll and backpack and stumble further back into the cave. There. Out of the snowstorm's reach. I feel my throat. Is that blood? Right. Note to self. Don't wipe your face holding a knife. I dig out the sewing kit from the backpack. Ridiculous. I put it back. I pull out some lichen and a low quality hoodie. I convert them into bandages. I carefully wrap the bandages around my neck. The bleeding stops. I put on my backpack and walk out the cave entrance. It's still snowing hard. You still mad with me mountain? Reishi grow on the mad mountain's tree stumps. I cut it off with my knife and put it in my pocket. A torn apart deer lies by a cave entrance. It's an upsetting sight. I look around. No predators within sight. I pick up the scattered crow feathers. The cave holds a lime green backpack and a polka pig colored mountaineer's rope. I roll my shoulders. No thanks, I'm done rope climbing. I search the backpack. Empty. I exit the cave. walk to the ledge of the mountain looking down. I whistle. I must be close to the summit. Shucks. I have bled all over my Mackinaw. I look up the mountain crestfallen. The ledge is far up. Swinging on the mountainside I see another godforsaken polka pig cobra.

Though it's not exactly Arabica beans it sure kicks me off the ground as promised. I grab the rope. My poor shoulders. The pain. They're probably ready to emigrate from my body. Luckily it's a short climb. I pull myself over the ledge, sit down in the snow and look up at the summit. I'm one step closer. Reishi, rose hips, deer and unrighteous bunnies. I have climbed into Mother earth's pantry. And man's. For another cargo container glimmers in the snow, waiting to be sawn. And so it shall. The hacksaw gnaws and squeaks, making it's way through the metal. The animals vanish. The container bottom is laid with tomato soup. I put the cans in my backpack. Though I was mainly planning to carry things down from the summit, not up. A snow-capped curled path leads me uphill around a rock. It's a path as broad as the Autobahn. Strange. The weather has been remarkably anonymous today. Cloudy. Somewhat windy. Somewhat chilly. It's the first time in weeks that I haven't paid the slightest attention to it. That's not an oncoming car is it? No, that's the owner of the Autobahn. Roaming towards me. She's not small. I pull out the knife, back up and brace myself at the mountainside. I look back. There's a narrow path in a cleft between the rocks. I glance at the bear. She saunters absent-mindedly. I'll let her do her thing. Through the cleft then. Another rope. Another shoulder abuse. Another sundown. Another cave. Another labyrinth. These mountaineer's ropes truly suck the juice out of both mind and body. There. An exit. I walk out in the freezing air under the star-adorned firmament. A timberwolf rushes towards me, barking welcomingly. I'm too decrepit to lambaste your furry face. I back up, clenching the knife. Back to the cave then. He doesn't follow. For safety's sake I go deeper into the labyrinth. I find an unexplored path. It leads me upwards. That seems promising. There. Stars. I roll out the bedroll and crawl into bed, still holding on to the knife.

The arrow flies. Just above his furry ears. You lucky bastard, unknowingly sniffing the snow. I almost feel sorry for you. I squat behind the cargo container, reaching for another birch arrow. A shrill whimper. I peek over the container. My fiend sprints as if his tail was on fire. Up a path on a slope. Out of the valley. What was that? Long reaction time? Sudden anguish? Reminds me of the easily spooked rabbits. Whatever that was, the magnificent beast is gone. As the emergent mayor of the valley, I take a close look at its treasury. The cargo container is locked and the lock is broken. I saw it open. Inside await an inordinate amount of low quality clothes. Except, a second pair of wool socks. I find a path around the corner. I turn to the valley and salute it before leaving office. The path leads to an open cave room. Cuckoo? The echo is weak. I imagine a cello... wait what's this? A plastic container in the snow. A box of matches and a can of peaches. You're definitely coming with me. I make a campfire, boil some snow and prepare a cup of coffee. I pull a torch from the flames and get going. Unchristian, juicy rabbits ahead. Nastily hopping around, enjoying themselves. I put my hand in the pocket. I'm out of stones... I throw the torch in the snow before me, pick up a few stones from the ground and return my attention to the ra... they're gone. How come everything is so easily spooked around here? Have the rabbits by the hut been gossiping about me? Or is there something on my face? Focus. Where should I go from here? I turn around and look up at the summit. I spot a rope. Looks like my best bet. I roll my shoulders. One rope isn't going to kill me.

The timberwolf stays at the ledge, closely observing my descent down the scarp. Nice and slow, mustn't lose my footing. I spot another wolf in the valley. Out of the fire into the frying pan. He warily wanders about the mess that the aircraft's torn limbs have created in his humble abode. I reach the bottom of his valley unharmed. Here's another anomaly for you. Me. Torchhurler. Rabbitslayer. Certified tea brewer. I remain undetected, bravely crouching behind a cargo container. I peek out above it. There he is. My condemned fiend. His back to me, sniffing the snow. I stand up straight, solemnly raising the bow. Artemis, aid me in the piercing of this perplexed beast. I aim for the neck and draw the bowstring. It's payback time. Payback for all the wrongdoings of your kin. For trying to eat my face by the trolley. For your cowardly attacks near the marsh and powerplant, two against one is just not fair. For driving me up ropes and down mountainsides. But first and foremost. Payback for all the rabbit-snatching. I exhale, releasing the arrow.

I wake up on the bed inside the hut. A blizzard ravages outside. I should pick up my bedroll from the porch before it gets ruined. I open the door. Bad idea. The storm grabs the door it and launches it on my shoulder. I stumble backwards grunting. I clench my jaws, take a step forward and grab the door. I push it towards the storm until it closes. It stays in place rattling. I feel my shoulder. Bruised, not injured. Leisure time then. I gut the rabbit. I sharpen the axe. I repair the hacksaw. I grind the reishi mushroom to power. The pulverized dust from the immortal fungus whirls in the air. I smell its earthy, woody fragrance. I want to find that airplane. See what's in its cargo. The blizzard passes. I go out on the porch, enjoying the ice cold forenoon with a hot cup of tea. I pick up the bedroll, shaking off the snow. I look up the mountain. With the help of daylight I clearly distinguish the contour of a plane wreck. These kamikaze planes in the wild. Is this turning out to be some local tradition? I sip the tea. It burns my lip. Should I stay here and let my sore climber's shoulders rest up? Hmm. I might be sitting on a goldmine here. A high altitude goldmine. Besides, you trek up a mountain with your legs. Not with your arms. I go back inside and take stock of the food supply. It should last a few more days. That's probably enough to take me to the top. I pack the backpack light and step outside. A wolf lurks by the uphill stream that flows into the lake. Other way then. I walk past the fishing hut unnoticed. The sun warms the back of my head. The wind blows gently in my face. A treetrunk on the ground hides both cat tails and lichen. Nature's pantry. A bark. A furry four-legged creature sprints from towards me from the mountainside. I flinch. He slows down as he approaches. I start jogging downhill, making a half circle in the snow. My heart skips a beat. A bear appears on my other side. Hasn't he seen me? I sprint inbetween them, towards a ledge. Throw a torch? On a bear? I'm not taking any chances. I run like a hog. I brake hard by the ledge. A steep and rocky scarp above a valley strewn with plane parts and crates. Paws patter behind me. Down the mountainside it is then.

The power lines hum. The hut lights up. I distinguish a folded piece of paper on the table. It's a journal page. The handwriting is readable. So the author is a woman then. An imaginative woman. She writes that she's off to the mountain summit in search of a crashed aircraft. Could it be the one I saw today? Hardly, the crash site wasn't on a summit. I step outdoors, gazing at the dark mountaintop, the violet sky glimmering in the background. There's nothing there. A small structure on the frozen lake catches my eye. Go out on the ice again? Curiosity killed the cat. But curiosity also provided clothes, weapons and food. I warm a cup of birch bark tea by the fireplace and tack off my jackets and jeans. I'm taking the knife. Worst case scenario I'll use it as an ice pick. I walk down to the shore and tread the ice. Feels stable. Fever chills make me shiver. I keep walking. The ice holds. I reach the structure, a green fishing hut. A hammer and a lantern await me inside. I resist the urge to smash the latter with the former. A stove stands on the unpainted wooden floor. In the other corner, a frozen hole for ice fishing. Too bad I didn't bring Gemma, icebreaker queen. I sit on the floor, stabbing at the ice with my knife. It's not very effective. But it'll work when I have more time and a heat source. I should look through the book about fishing tomorrow. I pick up the tools and return to the hut. Inside the air is smoky and nauseous. I hastily dress and light a torch from the fireplace embers. I make a new campfire just outside the door. The flames will sheltered by the stone wall frame. I roll out my bedroll and lie gazing at the stars. Orion's belt shifts in green. A fellowship of three. So close but lightyears apart. Time passes. Green fades to black. I close my eyes. A howl breaks the serenity. I wake up in a haze. A shriek from the lake. Is that you Danny? I run dazed to the shore. The fog hangs low on the lake. Another sharp shriek. I run on the ice, nearly slipping. I instinctively regain my balance and stagger into the fog. Danny!? A nearby growl. I stop. A timberwolf appear in the mist. He turns his head to me, baring his teeth. I pick up a stone and throw it on his nose. And another on his side. And one on his leg. The wolf hesitates for a moment and runs into the mist. I kneel. A slayed rabbit lies on the ice, his limbs twisted. The pelt is fairly unspoiled. I throw a stone on the carcass. That counts as my kill. I pick my victory trophy by its paws and plow my way back through the fog. I come out by the hut on the other side. I exhale. Feels like the fever is gone.

I eye the scenery. A stone hut looks over a glimmering crystal lake. A mountain towers up high behind the water. Above it, nothing but the solar system and beyond. Snowflings land on my face. I turn my face towards the moon and stick out my tongue. The first snowflake tastes like iron. The second like fir needle. The third like roasted rabbit in mustard sauce. I enter the hut and drop my backpack by the door. My joints ache. Or is it just the fever? I'm breathing clouds. I light the fireplace and throw the sticks in it. I pull a burning log from the fire. There is a plain bed, a crafting table and a moss green shelf. I search the shelf. A chocolate bar and beans. I can tell they are beyond ther best before date. But the low temperature should have preserved them. I put them by the fire. There's something else on the shelf. A blue box of wooden matches. Priceless. And on the bottom shelf, an empty first aid box. I feel a cold breeze on my face. I look up. There is a hole in the roof by the ceiling lamp. I dig out the rabbit hides from my backpack and stretch them out on the floor. I hope I haven't ruined them. The ceiling lamp starts to flicker.