Lake Rodney crow feathers

Rarely did Boreasz find himself accosted upon the road, as men often kept to themselves and women were not interested in the potential dangers of being alone with a stranger in that way; so as he drank, he presumed the shadow would continue on, to go about his business. The soldier did not have much to his name now—he was no longer aristoi, his father's titles, lands, wealth, none of it made its mark upon him here.

A shout came from around the next bend. Boreasz heard it, but he focused more on the dripping of the ice water from his chin, and as he drew his numbed tongue across his lips, he looked in the direction of the voice—surprised, in the sense that he was vaguely charmed, to find the shadow had not gone away.

He shakes some tension from his shoulders and positions himself to be more visible, flanked by dark trees so that his outline can be plainly seen, before shouting, No—and neither are you, I presume? He was tempted to call him closer, and cleared his throat... But then decided, no; he would close the distance himself. The grays of his coat rippled dully against the wash of snow around them both.