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Snow poured all around the frigid northern forest, blanketing the ground in a thin layer of white. Adam Blaccat's heavy footprints made a small crunch as he moved, his ears pivoting automatically to make out any sound that may be nearby. He found a location that seemed safe, gathered some fire wood, and set his equipment down to rest. Nonetheless, he kept his great sword on his back in case of any bandits or wild animals, it's blade faintly glowing with an ice enchantment.
"This smoke might bring in some attention..." He thought aloud, stroking his gray tinted maw. "However, not all attention is unwanted, I believe. It's been a while since I've had a good conversation..."

Even amidst the freezing breeze that weaved through the pine trees like a vengeful spirit, Randle's chest burned ever hot. Silver eyes fixated on the wisp of smoke that drifted above the treetops, he wandered on through the woodlands, pulling his thick woolen coat closer to his body with a hard-knuckled fist. This wasn't the first time he'd found himself in a place like this, though he definitely prayed it'd be the last. ⠀⠀⠀"Oughta have a good reason for choosin' to hunker down all the way over here, Duke," Randle muttered under his breath, squinting through the hot steam that escaped his lips, "a real good reason.." As things stood right now, the entire city of Thornfalle considered Duke Archmond IV to be a dead man. Taken from his home in the darkest hour of the night, he hadn't been seen or heard of for the past four seasons, and after only two of those, his people had given up on him. The local Priesthood had seized control of the city ever since then, and despite their obnoxiously strict doctrine, not a soul in Thornfalle had made an effort to bring back or even look for the kidnapped Duke. No one, except the anonymous and fat-pocketed client that'd sent Randle a desperate letter, pleading for him to head into the northern forests and look for Archmond IV there. Not an explanation behind the clue, nor a name or sender address. ⠀⠀⠀Now, normally, Randle would've shelved such a missive. The affairs of the rich were usually not within his playing field, and often times those sort of gigs came with ugly strings and hidden motives attached. However, rent had increased and the hysteria around Magick had too, so being the starving artist that he was, he'd taken the bait. And here he was: boots soaked, body glowing, eyes dazzled by the layers of snow upon snow upon snow. It didn't get any better than this. ⠀⠀⠀After a while, he approached what appeared to be the source of the woodsmoke. A middle-aged feline warrior sat by his campfire, a large blue-studded greatsword hanging from his turned back. Like Randle's, his ears seemed to turning towards every sound; no doubt that this black-furred gentleman had heard him coming. Friend, or foe? Only one way to find out. ⠀⠀⠀"Good afternoon to you, too," Randle said as he walked into view, crouching down by the fire with his large hands stuck out towards it. "Surely ya don't mind if I.. 'warm up' around here, eh?" The doubleness of that phrase likely wouldn't even escaped the dimly-witted. The slender streams of steam that'd escaped from his nostrils and the stitches in his artificial hide slowly dissipated as his body adjusted to the warmth of the fire. The heat that once radiated off of him like a coal in a waterskin disappeared, and instead made way for a prickling, icy sensation to those that would come near. "So, what is it that ya hunt up here? Great game, or simply the sights and serenity?"