castadrift | game start!

This...is not good.

Alfred is almost certain he's in some sort of shock as he sits up and feels sand beneath his fingers. What happened? The plane crashed, he somehow managed to fail to die, then obviously there was some space in time that his memories are refusing to fill in- then...what, exactly?

Then the shore, apparently.

At least his carry-on is still with him, he notices blearily. It's clasped so tight in his left hand it feels odd to loosen his grip. Shaking the last bits of unconsciousness off he stands cautiously, trying to check to see if anything's broken. When his body seems fine he wades out into the water, wondering what he should do. Call for help? Check for rescuers? Swim out to the plane to help any trapped survivors? His insides shiver at that last part. The thought of swimming out to a plane full of bodies to rescue anyone trapped inside in an air bubble or whatever only to be trapped inside himself with all the bloated cadavers makes him want to retch.If anyone's still alive and trapped inside- well. They'd probably die before he found them anyway. He can't even see the plane any more; not from here.

What he can see, drawn towards the shore on a current, is a small but recognisable green first aid package. He intercepts it and wades back to the shoreline, hooking his carry-on as he does so.

"Hello?" Perhaps he's not the only one here. Hopefully he's not the only one here. God, he does not have the mental strength of Tom Hanks. It'll take more than a volleyball with a face painted on it to keep him sane. "Please tell me I'm not the only one to survive. Hello? I really wouldn't be able to forgive any of you if you all buggered off and died on the plane."

He's doing his best to keep his voice calm, but a few notes of panic still shine through.

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"Not particularly, but I used to camp. Only in and around London, mind, so I've got no idea what these are. But plants need water, I know that much. And sap is moisture, so these plants must have sucked up some water from somewhere..." he trails off, unsure if his logic is sound.

He shrugs and pulls off his jumper, wrapping it around one of his now bare upper arms to protect himself from sharp twigs. With his jumpered arm, he pushes through the increasingly dense forest. Jungle? What is the difference? "If we can't find running water, we're going to have to find more cloth and pray for rain."

The rucksack makes a crunch as Drake dumps it to the ground. He opens the zip and checks inside. He's not a heavy packer, so barring the technology, there isn't a great deal to be found. Into the empty front pocket he stows the twigs he's picked up, and then he shoulders the bag again. Sensibly he knows that it has to be running water before they can drink it. Anything can be lurking in the depths of a pond; disease, piranhas. He's not sure whether piranhas exist in this part of the world, but he's not exactly hurrying to stick his foot in a deep pool until he is. He does want to get clean, though, and water doesn't have to be running for that. His thoughts distract him, and he stumbles, catching himself against the rough bark of a tree. It scrapes his palm, but he doesn't say anything. After their day, a spot or two of grazed skin is nothing to worry about.

"Where can you camp in London?" he asks, dubiously. Does Alfred mean he slept on the streets for a while? London doesn't exactly seem like the place that invites happy campers.

"There are parks, small sites. It's been close to twenty years since I last went, though."

It's calming to chat nonchalantly while doing something as strange as forcing his way through a jungle on a deserted island looking for water. Pausing briefly to mark another 'A', he holds up a hand. "Do you hear something?"

Because he certainly does. It's soft, for certain, and quiet, but that's definitely a trickling sound.

Silenced, Drake lifts his head, listening as intently as he can. In this, he can consider himself skilled, for he's spent the better part of fifteen years listening out for the sound of happy feet, disapproving feet, or angry feet. Now he listens for the sound of water, hoping, and approving.

It's off to the left, and he turns. There's little reason to go charging off, if it's the only water source on the island, anything might be there. Instead, he walks carefully forward, taking the lead for the first time in their foray, and parts this branch, and that fern, until they break into a small clearing.

He can't see anything immediately, but beneath a netted web of fern leaves, he spots a glimpse of reflective light. "There," he says. "Over there."

Alfred follows behind, his heart nearly stopping when Wilson- Drake identifies the source of the trickling sound. Alright, he's watched documentaries. He knows that animals always gather by the watering hole. But there are conflicting thoughts running through his head too. Wasn't it on the pacific islands that people found things like dodos running rampant because there weren't any predators? Or was this sort of island the environment for giant dragon-lizards and jaguars?

Knife first, he ventures forwards to the edge of the small river. When he can't see any dark shapes lurking, or spot any traces of animal, he bends down and lets the cool, clear liquid flow over his fingers.

"We should set up a fire here, see if we can't build a shelter," he says, voice slightly doubtful. "If there are other survivors, we should let them know there's water here."

"Building a shelter might prove interesting with only a pocket knife," Drake says, his voice dry where Alfred's voices uncertainty. The fire, though, is a good idea, and he looks for a safe point to put down his backpack. Onto a rock it goes, and Drake's attention turns to the twigs he's been storing as they walk, and tries to think about things logically. He has no recollection of where he should build a fire, and there doesn't seem to be any immediate place that seems safe - he doesn't want to burn down the whole damn forest, but neither does he want to immediately brand himself an idiot by asking useless questions.

His eyes fall upon an area that seems easier to clear, and Drake walks over to it, kicking dubiously at a few sods of turf. "Here?"

"Hm," is Alfred's only response. It's a challenge, isn't it? But the boy's right, they'll need a hatchet to get it done properly. Instead of voicing his thoughts, he kicks a near-by tree, checking its sturdiness. "Hm."

"That'll do," Alfred gathers some rocks and settles on his knee beside the area Drake identifies. He sets them down and removes a shoelace, before finding another, bendier twig from one of the trees and sawing it off with the penknife. "I'll get the fire started here. You, do me a favour and write- I don't know, 'follow the A' or something on the beach, where people will see it. Something to let people know where we are. Hopefully, Ray Mears will have washed up."

Hopefully. "We'll have warmth and water at the very least."

As Alfred takes charge of the fire, some form of relief strikes Drake. He doesn't have to attempt to perform scout duties he'd never mastered originally, but he's still doing something. He leaves his bag where it is, twigs included, but takes one thick, pointier piece with him to use as a utensil in the sand.

Before he leaves, he ducks by the river to grab a few handfuls of water. Enough waiting, if it's poisonous, he dies, if it isn't he dies from thirst anyway. C'est la vie.

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