He was not the type of man you could call on for acts of chivalry: had he been such a man, he would not be criss-crossing the earth, in agitation as he was to this day. And on this day he had feinted on a path, surrounded on all sides by incongruent mountains. On deaths door step, the elements had lain waste to his arms and legs, now neatly aligned straight, his hip flask out of his grasp. He found fluttering thoughts of his home back in Devon, England. What a wondrous life lay before him; the prospect of children with his wife to be, Elaina. Not to mention inheriting Farnham house from his father, with all kinds of treasures to boot. It will all shape up nicely, now if such things can go so correct, all he had to do was wake up.

'Uhhh!'� he awoke with a start. He had found himself in some sort of nomadic household, or 'hovels'� as he called them for short. This kind of highly speculative analysis of his familiar surroundings, was what, at times, caused him problems with some of the English speaking people he had met on his travels. But theosophical digressions aside, he seemed to find where he was familiar in an odd sort of way. Which is useful to some degree, when you've just woken up from a fictional death.

Looking around the room was, to his blurry eyed estimation, around two metres each way. With a low ceiling, making him uncomfortably arch his back, in such a way that the pain gained by this action, made him submissive to the dirt floor on which he had lain.

He was mostly taken aback by the carefulness in which he had been placed down. His bag and accompanying utensils had been lain out exactly. Almost scientifically one could say, as the newer pieces of technology in his possession, such as his compass and pocket watch, were at arms length. He was pleased to see that nothing was missing, except his diary. His sentimentality was not as strong as other explorers of his time, yet it was somehow as important, if not vital to his journey.

He was in no mind to assume this to be in the hands of angels and miracles. Yet, something strange compelled him forward. So, wrapping his coat firmly against him, he would venture out into what he hoped would be some sort of village or settlement. He left his things where they were, and made his way out of the darkness in which he came from.
He was stupefied at what lay before his eyes.
A brilliant panoramic view of the mountains, the crisp, silkiness of the white mountains, which married the sky line in muted oranges and gold's. The sun was coming up, and to his delight, it struck his face with a warm uncontrollable touch that felt so unique, so unlike anything else he had felt and witnessed before.
He maybe lost, he thought. But he was at least mildly amused for a while.

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