Atlas finished his rant on Vermont with something about Xanax and minerals. He got up, and turned to Baron. "I am motivated by the promise of death. Kidding!", Atlas remarked, stepping through the portal. The first thing he noticed: His bottle was empty. He turned, looking at his surroundings. "Ah, this is near the haunted log cabin I talked about!", he remarked to nobody in particular. The ice barely bothered him. Pulling out another bottle, one would think Atlas had a magic coat, filled with all the liquor in the world. At this point, one could only guess.

Stepping forwards, snow crackling under his feet, Atlas took a long breath. Cold. He recognized this chill. Siberia. It was cryonic Magic. Christ, what if that crazy lentil farmer had come back from the dead? Ignoring his last thought, Atlas took out one of his knives. 6 in all, each with a weak magic enchantment. Fire, Ice, all that. This one, this one was special. A family heirloom he had grabbed from... Someone. It acted as a boomerang, increasingly useful to him, as the winds grew stronger.