All he had wanted to do was go flying. He hadn't intended on hunting, but the woods outside of wherever he was (he had no idea, but he was happy there) were quiet, the breeze was warm, and the rabbits were tasty.
After a meal, he'd taken to the sky, enjoying the sun, skimming the clouds.
And then, all of a sudden, it was all jarred and backwards, and cold.
Skellig enters the airspace above the bar much like a bullet-riddled warplane comes in for a landing on an aircraft carrier in heavy fog. Up looks like down, down feels like up, and nothing on the instrument panel is displaying a proper readout. Hard and fast, he careens past the treetops (clipping a few on the way down) before he skids into the snow, coming to rest in a snowbank tinted red by the overcast sky.
And then it begins to
rain.
(Meat.)
He groans, ignoring the fact that he's freezing. He's not tumbling out of control, and that in itself is a small blessing - despite the small chunks of meat that continue to fall around him, covering the snow in a light layer of flesh bits.
[OOC: The "rain" is confined to a small area - about half a football field, and only falls for a few minutes... Open til the move!]