Lord Ithicus Tarr, Wolf Keep, Fangholm
Ithicus Tarr was not one to let the cold get to him.
He was not a small man, standing at an even 6' with an upright, muscular silhouette. There was enough meat on his bones that he wasn't shivering beneath his warm, fur-lined cloak, certainly, and the snow hare ushanka on his head kept his ears perfectly snug even in the sub-zero temperatures.
He could not say the same for his general.
"My lord, is this completely necessary?" General Utrid whined, stamping his boots in the snow. "It's perfectly acceptable to wait inside." Tarr shot him a glare and fixed his gaze back on the road.
"To look weak in front of a worm is to lower yourself below its level," he growled. His grandfather had said something along those lines. Or had it been about a weasel? Either way, it did sound rather grand. "We wait outside," he clarified when Utrid gave a bewildered huff.
The two men stood atop the wall in silence then, staring out at the night-shadowed forest beyond the walls of Wolf Keep. It was quiet save for the distant hoofbeats of their approaching visitor, who was not yet in sight but who Tarr was sure would be arriving any minute now. A small flock of birds startled not far from the edge of the forest, and Tarr's well-trained hunter's eyes picked it up.
"There." He pointed, and General Utrid followed his finger. "He's there. See? You can warm your toes soon, old man."
He, on the other hand, would not be made to wait any longer. There was business to tend to.
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