This is the atmosphere the warlord is more used to, the wintery white of snow coating things here, burying things there, making the way difficult but not untraversable. He knows where things are in spite of this, his lightly armored boots treading down the snow covered lanes, his greatcoat flapping loosely with each errant breeze. The cold itself does not bother him either, but then there may be a few things he would have in common with the newcomer.

He keeps near the edges of buildings and ruined walls, places that can be used for cover, a habit he will never break. It's also out of habit that he keeps his guard once he detects movement, spinning to turn his helmeted visage towards the stranger.