Otter Creek cripples, bastards, and broken things

"Hm?" Rickon picked up his head, mouth dripping with fat drops of water as he turned his gaze on the spidery silver wolf. Had he heard him correctly? "Are you cold?" he asked, taking a tentative step closer. He sniffed the air, searching for something more unusual than his warm, bedraggled appearance. Though if there was sickness to him, the trench-born bastard wouldn't truly know. He'd been exposed to so few things in his threadbare life that he was lucky so far to have not unwittingly walked into trouble yet. Yet.

"Y'look like you could use a dip," he offered with a casual toss of his head towards the river and an equally casual smile.