She's pretty sure she's lost. Everything starts to look the same in the show, and honestly? She can't stand the snow. It's not the cold. She actually loves the cold, it's more the sneak attack sunburn that's killing her. Greta makes for a tall, willowy figure, forging a path through the snow, hood up, and if anyone gets close enough to see, then her usually pale skin is red and sore, across her nose and her cheeks. For a moment, Greta stops to catch her breath after topping the hill, leaning against the tall black staff that looks like a warped, twisted branch, with a series of notches cut into the side. Some have been scratched out.

A huff of breath, and she's-- hang on. There's a growl behind her, and suddenly she's moving over the hill a lot faster than she was before. Bears. Bears! Stupid Ferelden and stupid bears! In fact, she's pretty sure the entire trip through the Frostbacks is going to be a beast, and she's twisting on her heels, spinning the staff so ice starts to cloud about the end, ice crawling over her skin.

"Okay," she breathes, Nevarran accent thick and strong, facing down the bear with a certainty on her face that she doesn't really feel. "If we must."

One camp fire, crackling and glowing a bright orange. She's using it for light, more than for warmth, leaning over a leather-bound parchment book and slowly taking down notes. A pause, to shake out her hand, but before she can resume writing she hears a crack of wood decidedly not from the fire, and looks up sharply.

"Who goes there?" Her voice sounds strong-- almost. Something shakes in it and betrays her, even if she's standing and holding her staff.