"Sorry, you're not that lucky."

Alistair isn't very close, but the eerie quiet caused by the muffling blanket of snow and migration or hibernation of various wildlife lets him hear her despite it, and he's on his way closer. He has his sword sheathed, his shield on his back, and a rolled bundle of blankets that doesn't weigh much but barely fits under one arm. Whittle got to him, too.

When he's near enough, he offers her his free hand.