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Warm; that was the feeling Renauld had nearly forgotten.

Even though he was barely conscious enough to think, he could freely move his fingers. The winter winds of the previous days made it almost impossible for him to do even the simplest tasks of grasping a staff. His face regained feeling, apparent from the sudden slap his unrestrained body let out as he tried to scratch his face. He was alive, that was for certain. Taking his self-inflicted hit in stride, he went to rub his eyes. As he cleared the crust that had formed on his eyes, the back of his hand became wet with whatever was left on his face.

That dream he had was alien, but familiar. He couldn't recall it. He couldn't remember. Did he even want to remember?

Wiping the old tears from his face, he took a deep breath as he sat up from the bed. Hunger pangs slowed him. He was the first one awake. At least, out of the ones in the room. Muu got sick and was nowhere to be found. Ettamri was also gone, but more likely for different reasons. The rest were still resting in their bed. His own stuff had been placed by the bedside. After quietly (or as quiet as you could on a pile of straw) getting up and making the bed, he collected his things and formed them into a stereotypical hobo pack. The outer layer of his 5-days-wet clothes had finally been dried and was now being used as a shell to carry his things in a fortress. In a safer city in a different time, he probably could have just left his stuff by the bed until someone else needed to use it. In Andeave, you kept your shit on you. Plus, it was really only his winter wear. His armour consisted of crossing one's fingers and allies to place between you and the enemy.

Not wishing to wake the other party members, he stepped out of the room and, following his simple lizard brain, went towards the pleasant smell.