Survival Skills

[George Jones]

George opened his mouth to breathe, but just took in salt water.

Pushing himself upward, he sputtered and gasped for air, raising his calloused hands to his eyes to rub out the salt that had entered. Red rimmed and bleary, his dark brown eyes blinked open, squinting against the bright light from the overcast sky. There was the smell of an oncoming storm in the air, waves hit his lower back every second, pushing him towards the shore.

Adrenaline pounding through his veins, he was instantly uneasy. His last memory was falling asleep in his massive bed, amused with a game of Brick-Breaker on his IPad. Maybe he wasn't much of a "fun" guy, but he had become addicted to the neat little game. He hadn't spoken other than to business partners in months, and was completely content with his solitude...mostly content.

More content than he was now.

He dragged himself to shore, still clothed in just his pajamas. The thin flannel pants were struggling to stay on his hips as he rose out of the water, his hands grabbed at them to keep them up. His white shirt was see through, and now that he was out of the water and at mercy of the wind, a shiver ran through him.

Hecate, he assumed. Another 'lesson', another torture device, really. His face set in a scowl, his hands slicking his wet hair back and looking at the storm looming above. It didn't seem like he was going to get dry anytime soon. Jones considered his options. Water: not a good one. Staying on the beach: better, but totally in the open. He didn't know what was here. The jungle: not the worst...maybe the best? He still didn't trust that either.

He decided to hover along the line of trees at the beach, figuring he could dart into the jungle if things got messy on shore. His hands reached up to tear a hardy looking stick from a tree, and then he began to kick around, looking for a sharp rock beneath the sand. Crafting weapons from the woodland was a skill he learned in childhood. Hecate was going to figure out soon that testing George's survival skills was fun for him.

Jones wasn't about to let a women think she had the last laugh.

[Thomas Byng]

Thomas had gone to sleep in the nice lean-to he'd learned how to construct in his time as a hunter, and had awoken on the edge of the jungle, half his body on the warm, gritty sand, and the other in the dark dampness of the forest. He'd kept the clothing of the hunters as well, having abandoned his own clothing months before. The Viscount quickly pulled back into the shadows when he saw the other man on the edge of the beach. Having spent far to much time in the Woodlands, Thomas knew to be careful of other people, no matter how innocent they seemed.

He ducked behind a tree, watching the other man with a wary eye while planning how to find his way out of here. Given that this wasn't his first jump, he knew that he was likely stuck here until the next time. The blonde man made a mental note to attempt to figure out how long it was between jumps as well. The stray thought wondering about the talking animals entered his head too. He wondered if any of them had jumped like he had.

Thomas studied George and realized that he looked as if they were from the same general time period. The fabric of George's pajamas looked modern enough. Perhaps he was civilized. As the man began to poke at the ground with a stick, looking for who knew what, Thomas decided that he would take the first step and speak with George.

Slowly, so as not to startle the other man, Thomas eased out from his hiding spot and onto the sand of the beach. "Hello. Please don't be alarmed. I'm Thomas, might I enquire as to your name?" As usual, Thomas' speech was very English and upper class. Given enough time here, he might lose that touch of snobbery and the accent, but it was unlikely. It was as ingrained as his sense of entitlement. He thought he should have the best, and although he could do with less, he didn't see why he should have to. It was really quite the miracle that he'd adapted to this strange world at all.