War...conflict...bloodshed...these things all take their toll on the souls of men.  Some it drives to insanity, others towards further horror.  For many, it leaves them scarred; anxious and alarmed at all times.  If one is lucky, they can find a means by which to to stave off such diseases. As it so happens, an unlikely marriage of both leisure and business would fall into your lap.

Over the many years of marching, the many foreign soils Sharps had trod, there was the fascination of plants.  How different species appeared and disappeared depending on geography and how some thrived in one locale but suffered horribly in others.  Then came the deeper knowledge of plant lore, of powers and potions.  The ability to heal with but a drink, or to take life with but a drop.

It was on a fateful trip to find some such elusive species of flora that those damned mists appeared.  High in the mountains, some several hundred yards above the valley below, they appeared.  They did not descend the mountain nor did they rise from below but rather seemed to form in the air around you.  As the sunlight became choked and visibility all but gone, you had no choice but to simply wait it out on the mountaintop.  For many hours you sat, high above the world, and as you nodded off into slumber, not once did you imagine the very rock you lay upon was no more.

As the sound of lapping water fell upon your ears, you sat bolt upright, weapon in hand but before you stood no enemy or creature...but rather the ocean.

Kazimir, by contrast, had seen plenty himself, much of which was found within his new home world.  The mists were something every child knew, songs and rhymes had been burning it into their collective memories for generations.  So when the mists came to call upon Kazimir, it was of little surprise.  Knowing his fate was now in anothers' hands, he simply sat and waited for the choking cloud to pass, depositing him in some far flung land of horror.  Staring into the mists, his vision targeted the only object he could find, a lone, ancient tree.  The mists swirled, churning to and fro, blotting the very world from existence, yet the tree remained and indeed remained even as the mists finally released their grip on the light.  Yes, the tree remained, solid, ancient, stoic but the landscape was no more as it had been.  Kazimir now found himself seated in middle of an old but manicured cemetery.

Kazimir stood and surveyed his surroundings, drawing his furred cloak around him to shut out the chill of the accursed mists.  He walked toward the lone, ancient tree and noted the headstones as he passed, looking for anything remarkable.

Sharps rolls to his feet in a practiced move. His trained eyes look for enemies in the unfamiliar locations; seeing none he stands full, replaces his blades and surveys the new lands he has found himself in.

"Well, fuck me," he says.  He whistles for his horse, and calls out to Twelve. He pats himself down to ensure nothing has been lost in the transition from there to here.

"Guess I won't be bangin' that sweet little barmaid again tonight. It never fails: pay for a room in advance and somethin' always comes up ta spoil it."

He uses his senses to learn more about the place he is in, and specifically looks for high ground to walk to so he can see more. Are the bird noises familiar, is there a smell other than the ocean, is this the same climate he was in.

Kazimir: At first glance, the place seemed deserted.  Many of the headstones were very worn and crumbling and as you looked around, the remains of old foundations fell apart in the bright morning sun.  It then dawned on you that the place was impeccable and clean.  The vines and other plants were trimmed and the grass was kept very low.  In the corner, almost built into the wall itself, lay a stone cottage, smoke still rising from the chimney. Further off, you could make out the faint roof lines of cottages and homes possibly still standing.

Sharps: Before sits the ocean, vast, dark and blue.  Gulls cry as the surf gently crashes into rock-strewn shoreline.  The boats creak on their mooring lines...wait...those are actual boats...and that's an actual pier.  That's when the remainder of the sounds...voices, children, animals...sends you spinning around to find a thriving port.

"Well, that's not as bad, is it?" he says to himself. "Ports mean sailors, sailors mean bars, bars mean wenches an' whisky an' answers."

He checks his money supply and gives his appearance a once-over. "Bars mean jobs, too. But sometimes sailor boys get drunk and have accidents. Then...no need to look for a job."

He starts off toward which ever end of town looks like it has the most sailors and bars.

Kazimir stood for a few long moments as he considered his situation and took in his surroundings.  It was obvious that he wasn't in Hazlan anymore, that much was certain ... but where had he gone?  Lowering the hood of his furred cloak, the intricate patterns of Kaz's tattoos stood out in stark contrast against his pale amber skin as he weighed his options.  The air felt cool against the smooth skin, for he — like all Mulan — regularly shaved their scalps.

Deciding finally to get some answers, the warrior set off toward the cottage.  The cemetery in which he had found himself was obviously well tended, and if the cottage's thin trail of smoke threading its way to the heavens was any clue ... the caretaker was home.

Sharps:  Breathing in the crisp, salty morning air, you are indeed quite surprised by how pleasant everything seemed, all things considered.  The fog had completely retreated leaving behind a rustic yet bustling town.  With the sun now clearly shining, you can see that you aren't too fair from one of the piers.  The town itself, while small, is quickly filled with the usual noise and chatter one would expect to find.  The markets open for the day and soon people begin filling the streets with vendors hawking various wares to any passerby.  The taverns are easy enough to locate as the local "characters" stumble forth into the light.  You notice many individuals heading down to the docks to fish but strangely, no one seems to be sailing out for any reason.  In fact, except for 3 larger ships, nothing beyond the size of dingy can be seen.

Kazimir:  An aged, grizzled gentleman opens the weather worn door.  While his face and snow white beard reveal his age, his body was another story.  The man would have had to bend down to get through the door, probably 6'5 feet tall, with arms the size of trees, to say nothing of his legs.

With a look of concern he addresses you; his voice low but booming none the less...

"Can I help you sir?"

Hoping to catch a clue as to where he might be, Sharps heads for a vendor that is selling bottled liquids, preferably of the alcoholic kind.

Sharps is a man with military training and survival instincts. He walks slow and tries to not look like he's new in town. He evaluates the manner of dress of these people, how many are armed, are there guards or constables. Do they seem overly religious and are there women and children. Then he checks his surroundings- what lies beyond the row of buildings he can see? Are there trees visible, and what kind? Are they single ornamental trees or do they represent a forest or grove?

As Sharps arrives at the vendor he finds a bottle that might easily be stashed in his rig, since his horse is nowhere to be found. "Here now, what might you be askin' for this one here?" he asks, paying attention to the accent and monetary units requested by the man.