As he drew closer to the grotto, the air grew more humid due to the large body of water that waited just beyond the craggy edge. There was a mildewy, mossy smell that permeated the air and made him long for his life of just weeks ago. A life above ground with women, beer, and a damn good fight when he needed one. And a door for an entrance and exit. That would be nice. He wasn't looking forward to the necessary dip in the icy water of the lake. It was near torture to make the ascent to the surface when one's lungs were seized by the frigid temperature. Unlike everything else in the Twilight, the water in the lake could not be altered by mere thought. No amount of wishing, ordering, or hoping made the liquid any more bearable. So he simply saluted his men, checked to make certain that his glaive was secured in the scabbard crossing his back, and dove in. Long moments later, Connor emerged freezing and gasping, crawling up the sandy bank while wracked by violent shivers. He was struck by a feeling of déjà vu so disconcerting that he didn't realize he wasn't alone until he was tackled and knocked backward.
