[i]Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,[/i] the towering Finn thought. He bit on the nail of his thumb, glancing back at the amber hue in the night sky, before the door opened. He put away the worry on his face, replacing it with a comforting smile. There was no reason to make the woman anxious. At least not yet. After all, had she not had years and years of stress through school? She deserved a minute break from it. A good hike in the wilderness would do her some good.

“Oh, except for being mauled by many grizzly, I slept fine. I hope you slept well?” He asked genuinely after the bad attempt at a joke. He walked past her, heading towards the wardrobe. He spoke to her while he rifled through it. “Of course! Of course. Though, it might be cold,” he motioned behind him towards the fire, “You can make some water hot in the fire if you want.” He’d have gladly done it himself, but he had other things to do.

Chief of them was to prepare for the day at hand. At most, he would only be two days away from home. A day’s hike there and a day’s hike back. Luckily for him, the Amish settlement made a perfect way-station for him. Their settlement ran for miles in each direction, filled with crops and cattle. The Amish had always been pleased to trade with him, so long as he kept his firearms out of their homes. He didn’t imagine that would change now.

He withdrew a woolen, button-up shirt. It was drawing close to a black, though its true color was blue. He opted that it was best not to change in front of the woman, to be polite. A woolen vest was thrown on top of it. Not so much for core warmth, but for the convenient pockets. One could never have enough pockets. He could wear the trousers and the boots that wrapped his feet. 

He retrieved a belt, with a leather strap that went over one shoulder, from the wardrobe as well. Sitting in a cross-draw holster was another [url=http://www.percussionrevolvers.com/635-008]revolver[/url]. The 1847 Colt Walker was the epitome of revolvers at that time. Large enough to knock down an elk, it was well-suited to the large-statured Finn. The belt also had a tomahawk and hickory-handled knife sheathed on it. He threw the shoulder sash over one shoulder, grabbing the clothes with a free hand. He hurriedly walked across the cabin, before reaching the fireplace. There was another chest next to it, which he opened and grabbed more equipment for the day.

Two possible bags, leather bags that were originally used to carry odds-and-ends in the 1800s, were thrown over each shoulder. A cartridge box, loaded with paper cartridges, was removed as well. He maneuvered everything into one arm, before reaching up to grab the last object he needed – a [url=http://i696.photobucket.com/albums/vv330/stuckma09/Guns/Sharps_zpsdd69d7b8.jpg]rifle[/url]. It was an odd weapon. One of the few breech-loading firearms in the Civil War, it fired a paper cartridge and was ignited by a percussion cap that was placed underneath the hammer. Historically, the .54-caliber firearm had been fired with 64grains of blackpowder. Torsten’s, however, had been case-hardened and made of modern metalwork. It was capable of firing with 144grains of blackpowder. It was enough to throw a smaller man on his rump, but the towering Finn was obviously capable of handling it.

He smiled at the woman again, before looking down at the rifle. He wasn’t bringing it for the bears. He was more worried about the predator with two legs. If Portland was burning, who knows what they might see on the road? “Bears,” he told her the lie, before heading out the door.