Jolchek, the Sunflower Warrior, was surreptitiously trying but failing to hide a dangerous spate of frostcrotch, which was quickly turning his loins into as barren a wasteland as the one he had found himself surrounded by. The persistent, nagging numb caused by the pale, white fingers of cold guaranteed he would feel no pain there. He was grabbing his unmentionables often and obscenely, needing to be confident they hadn’t fallen off, lost in the countless feet of fallen snow. It was a ritual, and the fact of their remaining existence was a totem he returned to keep himself sane.
“Jolchek,” Lyllia said, stopping and turning her head to face the warrior.
Jolchek did not have the energy to speak. Seeing his face, Lyllia let the conversation drop where it never began and continued on.