[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/hSbxgyH.png[/img]
[sup][@Pyromania99][@Rune_Alchemist][@Guy0fV4lor][@PaulHaynek][/sup][/center]
Upon the crack of thunder, Isidore opened his eyes. A night's sleep with no shelter and hardly any bedding, exposed to the elements if not for the stubborn embers of the firepit...and his body [i]didn't[/i] ache? Certainly, it was a miraculous situation. Reminded him of the days where he could eat trash and still be ready to work out at that humid basement the boys called 'the Gym'. Sitting up, the dark-haired youth closed his eyes once more, grasping onto that sensation of warmth spreading through his body again. His heart pumped blood to his extremities, steam rising from his form as the last vestiges of the night were chased away and the snow around him melted to water, then heated up into wisps of steam.

He chewed on the ash-covered remains of the boar, minding neither the bitter taste nor the lukewarm heat. The mountains south were shrouded in thunderclouds, bursts of lightning visible even as far as the forest they were currently in. A winter's storm, ill-equipped as they were, was suicidal under normal circumstances, and Isidore had not yet the opportunity to truly understand the limits of his current body. Mayhaps with his self-heating capabilities, he could venture through a lightning-hurling blizzard. Mayhaps his energy would simply run out and his body would only be found after the spring melt. The man's eyes settled upon Augusta's own as Donovan prayed to a once-nameless god, his eyes narrowing slightly, but it was only after Donovan addressed the rest of the group that Isidore acted.

[b]"Mountainous traversal necessitates proper equipment. North is fine."[/b]

If there hadn't been a village to procure supplies from, Isidore would have pressed on southwards, storm or not. At worst, they could camp at the base of the mountain, after all. But seeing how the deer had only offered an incomplete answer, he was willing to detour for better chances in the future. Shaking the ice off the chains and brushing the damp off his arming sword, Isidore turned to the others, sweeping from Octavia, to Augusta, before resting on Nicholas.

[b]"Unless your instincts tell you otherwise?"[/b]