It's rather fitting that a storm should accompany the pirate into Helovia.

The forest shakes with the force of the winter tempest, its trees battered by howling winds and its grasses pinned flat by crashing rain. It's so cold that the hammering droplets are a mixture of hail and rain, a blizzard serenaded by the roars of thunder and flashes of forked lightning. The frigid drops clatter like icy bullets into the face of anybody unfortuate enough to remain outside during the cruel weather, and the vast majority of animals have seized the opportunity to dive into their burrows or snuggle in their dens.

Bartholomeo does not hide. He stands with the wind in his face and his eyes narrowed to slits against the blizzard, his proud antlered head held high and his mane twisting around his muscular neck like ship's rope. His nostrils flare as he sniffs the air, hunting for the telltale salt of the sea. He finds nothing, but that doesn't mean he won't.

His journey has been long. After having his worldy goods stolen by the vagabonds who attacked him, the stag pursued their scent for days to try and reclaim his multitude of taken items. Alas, he was met with little success. The thieves scattered to the four winds, each taking one or more of his belongings with them. It was impossible for Bartholomeo to pursue them all, although he damn well tried. He feels naked without his possessions as he marches through these unfamiliar trees, unused to the lack of weight on his sides from his swords and the absence of the belt that they used to swing from. The bastards even took the decorative rope that he used to keep twined around his hindlegs, which irks him just as much as the lack of his weapons. His swords were fine blades, coveted by almost anyone who met them, so the stallion is hardly surprised that the thieves chose to take them - but his rope? The sentimental value it carried made it precious only to him, and it sticks in his craw that the rogues would even see fit to snatch it as well as everything else.

The thing he misses most, though, is the sash that he kept bound tightly around the girth of his barrel, a green blast of colour against the earthy tones of his skin. It makes his throat constrict and his stomach twist into knots as he thinks of Carlisle's precious sash, and the fact he'd been unable to keep it safe. Just like his precious sister herself, the one item that reminds him of her has been snatched from him, and he's sworn a thousand painful deaths on the man who took it. He will find it, even if it's the last thing he does.

He does not know what brings him into Helovia. It is simply a happy accident born of his attempts to follow the thieves, but as he stalks through unfamiliar trees in the midst of a thunderous tempest in the skies, he feels something different about the place. It's like he knows that he's entering somewhere of great importance, and it makes him oblivious to even the foul weather. Another quick stiff of the air proves fruitless, because the vagabonds could be anywhere. At least he managed to keep one of his weapons - a small, beautifully carved steel knife with a bone hilt, far less effective than his swords but better than nothing. Without his belt to hold it, he's forced to stash it in his mane and hope gravity works in his favour, which is less than ideal. The stallion has never felt more vulnerable. "Bloody thieving bastards," he growls to himself.

Finally, he pauses beneath the shade of a massive oak tree. The rain continues to drive into his face and his coat is sodden with it, but Bartholomeo is no stranger to being sopping wet with the elements. He's too hardy a man to be bothered by a bit of a storm, quite the contrary - he revels in it. So the world finds him stood beneath a tree, deciding to rest his stocky limbs before he continues his quest deeper into the forest to try and find those sword-stealing shitbags and enact a revenge that he's determined to make very satisfying.