Azwel's not familiar with radios at all, but he catches on very quickly. He clips one of them to his belt with all the other things hanging from it.
The shield, however, he declines. If nothing else, he can't get a gauntleted hand under the straps and he isn't about to remove one of them--that'd break the circuit and render them useless.
The uprooting of the beacon is watched keenly, his mind already figuring its weight and dimensions and the best angle at which to pull the thing from the ground from his own perspective, already figuring that someone six feet should attempt it over someone shorter--the leverage would be easier. That he doesn't voice this, however, is odd. But he's preoccupied by the howling of the wind and how it sounds like a voice, calling out to him.
Then they're moving on. The edge of the torches almost feels like a precipice. But he tightens the wrappings around his head and face and neck and pulls a pair of goggles down over his eyes.
The wind hits him like something solid and he staggers, regaining his feet after a few steps, slogging along through the snow with the others. He squints into the blizzard, but it's nearly a white-out. Around him looms the ice-covered geometry of dead buildings, alien shapes of black and grey and white, the wind screaming its furious grief at their passing.
Or is it screaming in fierce triumph at its victory?
That wind... Azwel wishes he could block it out, but then he wouldn't hear his comrades if they said anything. He grits his teeth, continuing, eyes all over the landscape, as much of it that's visible.
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The shield, however, he declines. If nothing else, he can't get a gauntleted hand under the straps and he isn't about to remove one of them--that'd break the circuit and render them useless.
The uprooting of the beacon is watched keenly, his mind already figuring its weight and dimensions and the best angle at which to pull the thing from the ground from his own perspective, already figuring that someone six feet should attempt it over someone shorter--the leverage would be easier. That he doesn't voice this, however, is odd. But he's preoccupied by the howling of the wind and how it sounds like a voice, calling out to him.
Then they're moving on. The edge of the torches almost feels like a precipice. But he tightens the wrappings around his head and face and neck and pulls a pair of goggles down over his eyes.
The wind hits him like something solid and he staggers, regaining his feet after a few steps, slogging along through the snow with the others. He squints into the blizzard, but it's nearly a white-out. Around him looms the ice-covered geometry of dead buildings, alien shapes of black and grey and white, the wind screaming its furious grief at their passing.
Or is it screaming in fierce triumph at its victory?
That wind... Azwel wishes he could block it out, but then he wouldn't hear his comrades if they said anything. He grits his teeth, continuing, eyes all over the landscape, as much of it that's visible.