Heron Lake Plateau Oh the Weather Outside is Frightful

Owen frowned a little as he caught the subtle scrunching of his father's brow—it was a little hard to see, darker shadows against the black, but Owen was being extra-observant of his parent at the moment, searching for signs to corroborate his peskily lingering inner doubts. This was obviously a sign of something, Quixote thinking hard about one thing or another... other warnings he might not have seen fit to pass on to his son yet, perhaps. Or...or maybe he was pondering just how gullible innocent little Owen might really be, and what further tall tales this kid could be relied upon to swallow.

Wind doesn't push the ice around, though, he said slowly, thinking pretty hard still himself as his gaze drifted in the direction of the lake in question—though his voice was a half-mutter and addressing himself as much or even more than his father. And Owen, slighter in frame than even most youngsters his age, really couldn't think of much of anything his weight had ever pushed around, much less stuff that'd talked back when he did it. But he looked back at his father with an obedient-enough, Hmm-mmm... 'Kay. Even if he still harbored some doubts rattling around in that pointy little skull of his.

Owen paced along a ways further in his father's footsteps before another question bubbled irrepressibly up out of him. Have you caught a lot of deer who've been caught in this stuff before...? Owen frowned afresh as he paused his steps for just a moment to squint dubiously at the falling snow before hastening to catch up to Quixote's strides.