Dawnlark Plains waiting for a rainy day

Damn. That was most definitley not the wind. An irritated flicker twitched through his ears, and the veteran rumbled to another stop, squinting at the figure that slowly materialized out of the white horizon. Or was that a rock? Rocks didn't move. Did they move here? No, ridiculous. He whuffed through his nose, a cloud of breath curling around his mangled head. It wasn't a rock - no, as the other brute moved forward, it was very plainly male, and alive, and breathing, and... talking like a war grunt.

So, all in all, not too far from what he was used to.

Make quick? The rock, now named Goliath, is impressive for his youth - he'd looked like that once upon a time, before he was dragged through life's gutter. The remaining golden eye in his head slid down toward the snow behind him, a thick, baritone voice summoning up from his throat. Ah, he chuffs, brow lifting and scars twisting around the bone, This is your ice field, then? His voice is rough and tarried with age, aged like a smoker's and twice as deep. He really rarely spoke, and the try for humor is awkward at the very least, his face not matching the sound of amusement. There's no latent threat in his body language, hopefully - if anything, he hopes he looks as damn tired as he feels.