Stardust: A CYOA

Your name is Eliza Zircon, and you happen to be an actress on Broadway. Today is the day the production of Rent that you're playing Maureen Johnson in starts! You think you'll start the day with some green tea that has honey mixed in. Coffee was always too bitter for you. As for breakfast, you're probably going to have a piece of toast with homemade apple butter from your brother on it. Then you'll prepare for your show.

Your name is Tatalia Bridges, an up-and-coming historian. Thankfully, today's a day off, but sadly to make ends meet, you may need to get to work anyway...at the very least, you should have some time to eat an omelet. Cooking was always second nature to you, in your opinion, but brewing something isn't really your strong suit. You give up on that idea and get some milk instead. You never did get lactose intolerant...

Your name is Robert Q. Pepe, world-class gamer. Today, you feast on mountain dew and cool-ranch doritos before heading to a gaming center for a tourney.

Your name is Tim Roger Rucks. You been working on the railroad for two years now; something people normally quit after the first year. The company for some reason decided to send everyone home for a break.
You're not sure what to eat, but due to your state you think about having a dark cup of coffee to wake you up, and a fine cup of tea to clear the after taste.

A short sword. Gotta keep it light!
Put on an expensive but just as light down coat and some kind of scarf before you go outside to face... the squirrel that's been stealing your garbage. It keeps chewing holes in your garbage can and now's a good a time as any to finally finish this one-on-one. Chase after it and stab it.

Thing moving around like a dark blur?
I suggest also getting a lantern you can place down for better vision, or if you have the tech, use a hovering light sphere.

After a few moments in silent deliberation, you have brought yourself down to squatting level by the old leather trunk. Your fingers effortlessly flicked back the metal clips holding the lid in place and the whole piece now remains open of its own volition.

A lot of the space inside the container is taken up by stacks of rare books and your own personal journals, but a separate mish-mash of technology and seemingly old-fashioned weaponry clutters the little room that remains. The first thing you retrieve, without any visible trepidation, is an almost-clear, glass orb. The item fits snugly inside your gripping fist, but you instead attach it to the thin strip of material at the waist of your coat that best resembles a belt. The device is small and simple, but much more efficient than any torch or lantern.

Up next is a short blade of ambiguous purpose. It's quite large for a knife, with a simple, straight form and fashioned with nothing resembling teeth. On the other hand, you know the edge to be razor-sharp. Just the way you like it kept. It's heavy, though, for its length. You've never done anything as crazy as fight off a person with it, but the thought doesn't seem so outlandish as to escape the realms of possibility. The hilt is decorated with a dark layer of comfortable, worn leather. The part underneath, on the other hand, is entirely metallic, so as to counterbalance the weight of the blade. Whilst you've taken your fair share of risks, it would be foolhardy to take this weapon without first equipping sheath, forming another belt around your hip.

You pick up a few more essentials, when something at the bottom of the pile grabs your attention. An old relic you unearthed, glinting gold, that must have simply been forgotten about over time. You go to touch the fragment, turning it over in your fingers. You bleed, dropping the artifact the second you notice. Damn. Sharp. The piece will warrant particular and more careful attention when you get back home later, then you can catalogue it for further study. Ah, there's your gun. You snap it up without much thought, until you realise that you can't find your other holster. There are other ways you could carry the blaster, but... it's kind of a safety hazard. And you're a stickler for these kinds of things.

You shrug to yourself, deciding to leave the gun at home. You've got your blade - and when have you ever actually need to kill anything other than a few overgrown bugs. Speaking of overgrown... That thing is still moving outside. You can hear it. Nabbing a scarf from just by the door, you wrap it around your neck and cautiously begin to turn the handle. You slip your bag on, small and tight at your back, and take your keys out of your pocket to lock the house. A quick glance and you're assured that the thing at your bins isn't within your sight. The building itself isn't overly complicated. Two stories, plus a small basement. You did like your wine, from time to time, and this planet was pretty good for keeping it cool. The roof and the walls are all extraordinarily thick, padded to the brim with insulation. Your fingers fiddle with various keychains in the cold of the tundra.

And then something is at your arm.

You punch it, without so much as the briefest hesitation. Can't let it get at your skin. The rodent doesn't seem to be deterred, spreading its arms to prevent a fall. You think it's just gone up the wall, but you blinked. Stepping back, you steal a few glances around your person to ascertain that the thing is not, in fact, back on your body. As your head turns forward again, the squirrel barrels down from the roof, aiming for your face. Of course. It's the best bit of uncovered skin you've got, if the poisonous creature wants to sink its fangs into you. Sadly for Mr Marsupial, you're way ahead of the poor thing. Knife-sword out, you bat at it with the flat of the blade.

It's gone again. Squinting, is that..? A hole. In the snow. One of your feet crunches down, then you remain quiet as you process what this means. A squirrel on a world like this (yes, even a venomous, flying squirrel) has to take precautions as a means to survive. They're equipped to hibernate, sure, but this is something else entirely. Softly, you lift your leg up again. This furry pest can't hide under there for long. When you see it, you'll stomp down hard. Wait, why are you doing this? You may as well just bolt towards the 4x4 while you have the time. But then I suppose you did drop your keys by the door and you can't really risk going back right now. Not that anyone lives out here. Do you really need to lock the door?

Oh, look, the squirrel's climbing up your leg.

Your initial reaction is to shake your leg about wildly and drop the knife, but the squirrel doesn't seem to care. And he's moving up your torso soon enough, anyway. Must have escaped from his snow tunnel below whilst you were distracted. You get distracted a lot. Now you're kind of panicking. You had this under control 'til maybe five seconds ago. The creature's venom has the ability to paralyse for hours at a time and that in itself isn't harmful. You probably won't freeze to death in that time, so it's not really a big deal. Unless the squirrel decides to eat you.

Apparently this thought motivates you pretty quickly, because you reflexively spread both arms across your front, knocking the pest off your coat. It tries to move but you pin it down with one hand, a finger jammed in its mouth to keep it from biting. With growing confidence, you pick your blade back up and rest the point upon the squirrel's belly. Now that you're actually at this stage, mind, you don't really feel like killing a small, ambitionless squirrel at all. Circle of life, right? But you can't just let go either. Instead, you take the edge of your blade to the creature's fur, calmly shaving it. It seems to struggle in your grasp, which you take as a good sign that you're on the right track. It seems to be getting colder.

When you're done, the marsupial is far past fidgeting to the point of kicking its feet against you wildly. You stand up, gripping carefully. The miniature monster can fly, you figure, and chuck it into the morning air. This time, the squirrel does not come back. Given that you shaved it, the little guy's probably scampering off to go find some kind of warm shelter to stay in for the next few weeks. Hopefully it can adjust to a vegan diet.

You notice a blizzard kicking up as you meander over to pick up your keys, twisting them in the lock at the front of your home with a single fluid motion. And then you're at the door of an all-terrain vehicle, black in contrast with the scenery. As you shut the door behind you, you shiver. You turn the heating on. It's time to get moving. As the car starts to warm up, you ask yourself:

What kind of scenery do you expect to arrive to? Who will you meet with? What are you searching for at the excavation?

"Of course", you must be asking yourself, "How could it be a grassland with this weather as it is"? I'll tell you how:

The grassland itself is buried underground, recently found by archeologists within the area.

Your fist twists, the engine rumbling into sudden life. It runs on a reliable, renewable source of hydrogen, but the result is admittedly quite noisy. Without warning, the wipers whip side to side and then relax. As minutes pass by, the jeep warms up and you begin to see forest through the clearing windscreen. You press on, driving through the only visible path and flicking on the headlights. They're bright. Obnoxiously bright, actually. But safety comes first. You see no more wildlife through the flecks of green and white around you, which kind of makes sense considering the climate. It's a surprise that squirrel could stand the bitter cold, 'cause you sure can't and you're wrapped up tighter than skinny jeans on Donald Trump.

The road isn't wide, so you drive at a steady pace, taking every corner with manufactured patience. This carries on quite uneventfully for about ten minutes as you make your way through, closer and closer to the dig site. Once you break through into cool light once more, you're initially stunned by the number of people here. You've never seen so many people in one spot on this world. They all dress the same, in black uniform, bar a single woman sat down at a campfire. She appears to be writing something into a field journal, you note as you park the car nearby and step out into the freezing air.

The ruins themselves aren't much to talk about, so far. Bits and pieces of brick and rubble lie at semi-regular intervals, intertwined with thick, rubbery foliage that seems to withstand the fierce environment it intrudes upon. In the middle of the area, a sinkhole. Most digs start with digging, if you didn't already know. But the ground here appears to have simply fallen apart instead. Makes your job easier, you suppose. As you hastily slam the car door shut, the woman looks up. She doesn't greet you. Perhaps she's been waiting sometime. But then, did you tell her you were coming? You don't think you told anyone. Perhaps you are just becoming--

"Predictable," the woman barks, pulling a beige, woolen hat further down over the ginger locks that seem to have escaped it. Her hand rests at a similarly-colored holster, cradling a charcoal pistol detailed with chips and nicks. "You're not just here, you're late too."

Rolling your eyes, you ask the woman for details. She catches the look you give her and tuts in response.

"There aren't any. Nothing that got to me, anyway. We'll be the first ones in, seeing as the board has declined to permit a full, financed expedition until the next quarter."

For some reason, this ticks you off. Board members constantly get in your way in this line of work. But what would any of them know about your job? Nothing. They only know money. And if they were bothered about anything other than their own wallets, you might see eye to eye with them. Regardless, you're here now. It's not like you're incapable of dealing with the task yourself, alone. The hired gun would help too, although you're sure she'd take offence to being referred to as such. The lady you're speaking with isn't technically a mercenary, but you'd be hard-pressed to call her an archaeologist.

She asks what they've told you, but you shrug. Something about a crown, they think. It's all inconclusive until you get down there, but you say you'll keep your eyes peeled. Within minutes, you're geared up to a rappelling system. The rope clipped onto your harness is attached by the other end to a very heavy, armoured vehicle. Which is strange. All these men in black uniform seem to have rifles too. And yet, they're not looking outwards to guard the site. In fact, all of them appear to be rather concentrated on the sinkhole itself.

They must be very bad at their jobs.

Feet carefully peddling back towards the edge, you see your partner come back into view. You shorten the rope electronically, crouching and pushing yourself just over the edge, feet standing firm against the inside of the tunnel as you hold onto the device that signals the tether to begin letting you down. Again, uneventful. It gets darker, you realise. Pitch black, actually. After a few minutes, you look up to check that you can still see the entrance you came through - and you can. Just barely. A hand warily, blindly even, goes to activate the glassy orb at your hip. Light returns to your vision and you can more or less make out the sight of your partner moving their arm up to block out the glare in her peripheral vision.

You can see the ground in here now. It must be at least twenty feet down, still, and the tether seems to have stopped responding. Probably out of rope. The lady across from you groans, coming to the same realisation. She asks you.

"Ideas?"

Use your lantern to break your fall.

Use the Inquisitive Pink Text™ as a stepping ladder to descend downwards.

...Is what I would say if this CYOA wasn't operating on common logics. So instead, climb about 25 ft. up your rope, grab onto her rope, cut your rope, climb down to the bottom of her rooe, tie the estimated 25 feet to the end of her rope, both of you grab onto the rope extension, then cut her rope so she can climb down with you?