When her companion speaks up, Sabine looks back at him, frankly assessing both his input and the timing of his input. Her nose is red in the chill, and wild curls only just manage to escape the confines of her snow-speckled hood, hiding both masses of hair as well as the long, slender ears that mark them as being at all alike, beyond the cadence of their language.

"Maybe winter's when his bed's most cold," she adds, eventually, turning back to her journey. It's now a hill, which is promising. She occasionally reaches for low hanging branches and rocks to help her on her way, not paying much attention to the battering the thistles get. "And he remembers why."