Blacktail Deer Plateau it's just a triptych in decay

The man ignores his cry, and Robespierre's shoulders hunch in reflex, his jaw growing tight. Êtes-vous sourd? he inquires acerbically, his temper beginning to flare. But then the man stops and turns and casts an icy gaze upon him, and the northern man is caught as if in a vise.

Monsieur, he says, coolly but civilly, then goes on, in the common tongue: I asked you if you knew where the ice was. Glaciers. . . not just snow, he tacked on, looking up at the few snowflakes that passed through the evergreen canopy to float among them.

Not the best of starts, but Robespierre wasn't known for making friends. He thought them a burden, anyway; allies and acquaintances were far more his strong suit. He continued to wait for the other's response—verbal or physical.