Whitebark Stream put your ring back on honey-tits, you haven't had enough porridge this morning (mtr.)

there is a moment where wintersbane — as the pale sylph's predicament finally sinks in in full — worries if she can actually breathe. it's enough to bite back the brunt force of the mirth that rises like a hiccup in his throat. unavoidable and unbidden. but there was no telling how long she'd actually been face first in the snow mound and the rise and fall of her sides assured him that she was, indeed, breathing. for the time being, at least. she stops her indolent stomping and lowers her bum to the ground and he draws nearer, circling around her in an effort to examine. it was hard to tell if the snow mound was just that, or if there was something earthen beneath that she was stuck in. he is inclined to assume the latter if only because if it was just snow surely she'd have the ability to pull her own head out.

but it's not like he's ever seen anyone in this type of situation before and thus has no previous experience to draw from. stay still. he commands as he moves to her left side begins to dig at the snow to loosen it. he follows the line of her shoulder, side pressed against her own so he doesn't accidentally hit her in his ( hopefully not futile ) effort to dig her free.