The North didn't just have a harsh winter, it had a soul that seemed to actively dislike anything with a pulse. Cherion was currently sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at a stack of heavy wool tunics and wondering if it was physically possible to die of "too many layers" before the monsters even showed up. His fingers were stiff, not from the cold, but from a sort of frantic, pre-subjugation nerves.
He was reaching for a particularly thick pair of socks when the door didn't so much open as it exploded with enthusiasm.
"Lord Cherion!"
Reiner swept into the room like a localized hurricane of sunshine. The man was a walking contradiction, he lived in a fortress made of iron and ice, yet he radiated the kind of bubbly energy usually reserved for toddlers or people who had discovered a very large stash of gold. He was carrying a basket so large it looked like it was wearing him, overflowing with spools of thread and dried berries.
