Blacktail Deer Plateau it's just a triptych in decay

Temper, once more. Ice. Where. Is. It? His words were coarse, harsh, snapped toward the man that apparently had no grasp upon not one but two tongues. Robespierre had never had much patience for ignorance, and he sidled closer, eyes ablaze.

Surely he must know? This was a man of the world, scarred and thick-pelted, muscled, warrior. The better—at least physically—of Robespierre.

Perhaps they mocked him.

Ice. Cold. Al-ways winter, he stressed.