Barrow Fields permafrost giants

Waiting for an answer felt mildly awkward. Skífa swallowed his insecurity and let the smile linger on his face. The measuring of trust felt almost palpable. Skífa mentally teased the stranger for it, knowing full well that he was not trustworthy in the least. He didn't trust Corvo either, but he thought Corvo was probably predictable enough to be safe - safe enough to take with him through the fog. 

So when Corvo agreed, his lingering smile brightened, actually genuine for once. He even wagged his tail briefly. "It's good to have your trust, huh. I won't disappoint you." Then he glanced into the bland, sense-dull fog around them - the barrows rose like waves of snow and frosted earth at the fringes of their visible range. Dark hills with dark eyes. The premonitions from earlier continued to play tag in the grottos of his mind. He eyed Corvo again, and his expression was more somber than before. "Let's go, yeah? Spent too much time around these ghosts already. Wolves of old - not my ancestors, but someone's. I don't want to know whose."