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The mountain seems to radiate an odd chill as Sixer walks up the trail, ED-E floating in front to keep a lookout. He pauses to look at the Followers' safehouse, ensuring that it's registered properly on his Pip-Boy while Peaches snaps at flies. They're just small ones, at least, not bloatflies- while not dangerous, they are annoying critters. He gives a coarse hiss to the full-blooded nightstalker, 'Let's go up,' and she drops from her pouncing, tail wagging and giving off the normal soft rattles of a content snuppy. Sixer rubs behind one of her ears with a quick grin, and ED-E beeps ahead of them, signalling a clear path.
The incline is gradual enough to be relaxing, not strenuous, and Sixer hums to remembered tunes of his radio to pace his breathing. It does no good to get excited on a lazy walk and wear himself out. He checks the map again, squinting at the name on the station he's heading towards: Foxtrot. Benny said the NCR radios might come in handy after they're gone, so Sixer is following up on fixing up their radios. Besides, there's a snowglobe somewhere up here! He likes watching the fake snow drift around, and Jane gives him lots of money that he can give to Freeside, enough for a whole credit check so people can actually get in. It's only when the ground crunches under his feet that Sixer lifts his eyes from the map, head twitching back and forth as he tries to understand the sound.
It gains a new purpose, though, when he sees all the green and the white around him, covering the ground and piercing the greying sky. The brown trunks of the- the trees almost look black against the bright, clean white and shining green needles, and there's tracks in the white, Bighorners and mantids and even different bootprints. Some are the same as his, some deeper, some shallower- and some are the size of his head and are as deep as his ankles. Supermutants? Nightkin? It's hard to tell.
But that's all in the analytical parts in Sixer's head.
The much louder, animalistic half is why he dives into the white fluff wholeheartedly, sending up a spray of ice. Ice! It's so rare in the desert, but it surrounds him on all sides, only growing deeper as the mountain climbs towards the sky. He snuffles at the cold, pouncing through it with no hesitation or concern. A few times, he crushes a clutch of mantis eggs, but it's easy as anything to tackle the adults and rip them apart when they retaliate. It's a shame he doesn't speak bug.
He does speak nightstalker, though, and that's why he laughs at Peaches' barks and hisses of, 'It's cold! And wet! There's mice, denmate! They're asleep! The cutterbugs are awake! It's cold and wet!'
'Yes it is! Do not eat all the sleeping mice. We can come back here!'
'I am a hunter, denmate, not one of those puplets the bearmen call hounds. I know what I'm doing.'
'Yes, denmate,' he chuffs in response, before pouncing into a particularly deep drift of the ice. The cold presses through his fur and cape, settling more sharply on his spine, but he pays it no heed in the face of something so new. It's fun, clean and simple, and the dark is comforting in a cavelike way. He digs his own tunnels in the deeper snow, content to explore. Ice collects along his hair and melts, leaving him clean and surprisingly relaxed. After this becomes less novel, he settles in the soft ice, the warm amber light of his Pip-Boy glittering off the walls, and chews on one of the fresh xander roots he found.
All that digging and walking sure has worn him out, though. Maybe he'll take a bit of a break. Have a Nuka-Cola...
Sixer isn't sure when he fell asleep. There's a weight pressed against his chest and cold-dark-wet all around him, though, which he finds out only when a shoe connects with his shoulder. His instinct is to whip around and hiss, but he feels heavy and tired, only able to manage a weak growl as he holds closer to Peaches.
"Now, now, dearie, don't be like that! Let Grandma help." The voice is rough, rougher than even a territorial hiss, but full of warmth. Sixer rather thinks he'd like to be warm, and so he doesn't fight the big hands that pull him out of the cold, doesn't squirm away from the firm cloth he's pressed against. He just tucks Peaches as close to him as he can, covering her almost entirely, before closing his eyes and giving into the sleepy thoughts.
Time passes. Not much, he thinks. He's pretty good at figuring that out, and Sixer wouldn't even say a day has passed. A heavy blanket is draped over him, and he has to fight it a little to sit up and get his bearings. He finds himself in a shack- a good, well built shack, but doubtlessly a shack- on a bedroll, laying in front of a warm fire. There's a grate keeping it from leaping out at him, and Peaches is pushing this safety precaution, sitting close and flicking her tongue out at the sparks that dance in the quiet air. ED-E beeps behind him, and he tips his head back, making sure he's okay. As always, the eyebot just hovers, keeping an eye on him.
If he hadn't been told better, he'd think ED-E was amused.
"Oh, dearie, you're awake! Are you comfortable, Jimmy? Do you need Grandma to get you another pillow?" Now Sixer can snap his head around, and he does, staring at the Nightkin rubbing her gloved hands together. She is, of course, giant and blue, with a canvas shawl over her shoulders and a pair of denim overalls keeping the rest of her warm. There's flowers on it, and on her straw hat. They don't smell like real flowers, so he guesses they're fake. "Jimmy?" There's so many pillows under him. His whole upper body is actually really well supported, not sore from sleep. He blinks at the Nightkin, tilting his head slightly.
"...Just call me Jay. And, um, no, I- This is plenty, thank you?" He offers, unsure of what to do. From the slightly larger grin, he guesses this was the right answer.
"Oh, you kids and your nicknames. James when you were born, Jimmy all your life, and now Jay? Well, I suppose if it makes you happy, dear. At least this won't get you in trouble, like sleeping in the snow does!" Snow. That must be what the soft ice is. "Well, if you're awake, you need to eat! I put your cute little cape up to dry, by the way, you let it get all wet- that and your backpack," she says, with her voice like a revving chainsaw. While she talks, she's scooping something into a tin bowl, something that smells like meat and vegetables and plants.
"Is that brahmin? ...I like brahmin." He sits up some more, adjusting his pillows in preparation for the most beloved of rituals- eating food.
Grandma smiles at Sixer again, bringing over a couple bowls. One is deposited in his hands with a fork, the other set on the floor beside Peaches. "A bowl of stew for my grandson, and some chopped meat for the cutest puppy I've ever seen! What's her name, dearie?" She sits down behind him, which he thinks is weird and alarming until something soft and scratchy drags through his hair and he can't help but chuff in pleasure. It's dragged through slow and careful, over and over, relaxing the courier beyond what is usually safe, and he realizes belatedly that it must be a brush. Grandma Nightkin is brushing his hair.
"...Her name is Peaches."