( Her concern isn't unwarranted; his bones may not be sticking through the skin anymore, but things aren't good. The ache is serviceable; the way the muscle has gone tense and tight and nearly immobile the longer he stomps through the cold is less so. The longer he carries on, the more stiff his gait, and the more likely he is to stagger.

Being a big fucker accustomed to pain can get him further than you might expect, but it isn't a superpower. And so, at length, despite her promises of food and warmth, when his leg nearly buckles he's got to stop and brace himself against the sturdy bark of a very dead, very snowy birch. )

Alright, alright, hold your fucking horses, then.

( He snaps, heaving, warm breath puffing white clouds of condensation in front of his mouth as he slumps uncomfortably forward. The bark's rough under the callouses of his palm, but his fingers are nearly too numb for him to even feel it. It's a wonder he hasn't lost grip of his sword entirely. )

Why in the name of the Gods are you out here anyway, girl? Are you suicidal, or just dumb?