THOMAS "TOM" O'REILLY|| NAVIGATOR
First time stepping into the dense jungle and inhaling the heavy humid air felt like suddenly finding yourself in a closed room of infinite size, squeezing with other people shoved in to fill every small area of it, and then someone took a piss somewhere in one of the infinite corners. Most likely even more than once. Enough for your nose to notice it everywhere in the air. It felt paradoxically claustrophobic for an area so large and so deserted as it was, save for their little expedition that Tom already grew to accept as a part of the scenery, at least for a foreseeable time in the future. The humidity and heat laid heavily on his lungs for a while, but as he did times before, the Irish kept the discomfort to himself, giving it no significance, until he no longer felt it either. After all, supplies and equipment wouldn't carry themselves, and among several heavy-lifters they had in the group, he was rightfully expected to pull his weight.
Now, the wheels given to them to take them to the destination were a true pain in the arse, but walking through the dense jungle with his feet tangling on the vines on almost every step, O'Reilly found himself feeling nostalgic about the vehicle. After a few set backs and several juicy swears that had those around him either chuckle in amusement or glare at him shocked by the amount of foul capable of coming out of the man's mouth, although many of them they clearly did not understand well enough, O'Reilly got the hang of it, keeping the even pace and saving his breath with the oxygen already seeming severely restricted. Getting his mind off potentially dying of asphyxiation, Tom turned to observing the passing vegetation and the consistency of the soil that gradually changed as they traveled deeper in, depending on the moisture in the area. At the very least his choice of shoewear was quite on point. Sturdy and relatively thick. Then again, a promise of a good time stomping over the moss and mud with the occasional thorn to the bottom of your foot really did not leave much choice in the first place.
By the time they've reached the camping site, the cargo did not seem as heavy anymore, and only when he finally dropped it to the ground, had he felt the coldness of sweat under his shirt and a slight fatigue on his shoulders. Stretching, he looked up to meet the dense treetops at the significant height above the site, only a couple of inches shy of eachother, creating a rather interesting pattern not far off the pattern left by a lightning strike or a free flow of a stream through the ground. Starting in one large line and then spreading out all around. Those small spaces in between allowed some light to reach all the way down, but it was merely here and there, and it already had shown that the Siam had no intention on cooperating, let alone making his job easier. With dense crowns like that, at least in that particular area, navigating with the help of a sun promised to be a perhaps overly tedious endeavor.
"Ah ye, yer a bloody gas already, ain't ya?" Thomas mumbled into the wild scenery surrounding him as he took it all in; the deep and dense vegetation, the ruins overtaken by nature, multiple different sounds and of course, the heavy, humid atmosphere.
"One whale'o time, fella." Clapping his hands together with an audible exhale, O'Reilly turned his attention to the things he carried into the camp. Among the standard stuff one would expect in the packing for one such expedition, he chose a handy notebook with a pen, his trustworthy compass, the only thing of true materialistic worth he most likely ever possessed, and a smaller leather bag he packed all of it in, along with the flask that was filled and taken out for a test ride before the departure. Looking around the busy camp site, he quickly dropped the idea of inviting anyone to come along for a walk. Usually it would be a person at the very least somewhat familiarized with documenting the coordinates and measurements, but by the time any of them understood the way he preferred them being arranged, he could already be ways in the jungle, doing a job himself.
"If ya want it to be done as God intended, then ya gotta do it yourself!" Abram Bancroft, the man he owed his entire knowledge of even using a bloody compass, used to say it quite a bit. The irony of life was that he was careless enough not to prevent his own illness by handling his own meal, and only once in the entire time Thomas had known the man. It stuck with Thomas, even though he was anything but superstitious. Being slightly paranoid over things done for him instead of him was as close to it as he ever got.
Taking a generous sip form the flask, he packed it back in, and once more checked if the short-bladed machete was still safely attached to his hip, before he briefly consulted his compass and headed into the bushes right outside the camp. Away from the noise made by the camp dwellers, the silence was now overrun by birds, bugs and other noisy animals screaming at eachother in the cacophony of sounds that got lost on Thomas as he made his way through one plant after the other, his mouth moving soundlessly as he measured the distance. Every once in a while, he would stop in his track next to a piece of an environment interesting enough to use as a checkpoint after which he'd mark the new direction and new coordinates in his notebook, took a sip of drink and proceeded further.
It must have been some time he was wandering through the area, as the light moved quite a bit from the first measuring point, now throwing the shadow slightly off the first course, towards the west, and the first few pages of his notebook were already filled with pragmatically arranged calculations, coordinates and angles, as well as few quickly scribbled notes. Quite a fine start. Potential alternative routes leading from the camp, as well as few other interesting individual spots quickly caught his attention and it would be the first thing Thomas made an importance of to note. The Siam jungle did not favor lone adventurers and even more so, he was certain that Yank is already fuming out of his ears over his absence. On top of it all, half way to the camp, the flask emptied and was treated with a row of displeased mumbles as Tom swung it around rhythmically while cutting his way through with the machete in the other hand.
"Go on an adventure, they said. It'll be fun they said..."
Eventually, voices from the camp grew closer, and eventually the slash revealed a familiar clearance, although on the opposite side from where he started his venturing. To be exact, Thomas found himself only few steps away from the tent in front of which he had recognized the young woman from before. With unsheathed machete stained with pieces of green in one and an empty metal flask in the other hand, he made his way towards it, brushing of the remaining vegetation off of himself and his blade.
Catching the last part of the conversation between Angelica and mister Greene, he chuckled and stopped next to the young woman at the respectable distance, facing the American with a wide grin of a man with seemingly no worries in the world.
"Now that is not really fair, mister Greene", he responded as he packed his machete back to its sheath once it was clean.
"I barely dipped my toes in before it was cut short", Tom referred to the amount of alcohol he truly had, flipping an empty flask briefly, before tossing it into the bag.
"I am not an unreasonable man", he smirked. It was not necessary for Greene to know that the only reason Thomas didn't drink more is because he didn't
have more to begin with.
@Doctor Jax
