Felwinter is broad and tall and armored, with an air of something mighty that the world had torn at but could not truly topple. He appears out of the icy windshear like a looming cliff, titanic, steel-cold, desperately menacing. The snap of his coat and the uncanny nimble of his movements do not detract from the threat of him; to the contrary, in fact.

It's the usual thing, really. Though she be but small, she is not unaccustomed to facing a surprise or two, not around blind corners, or in open fields.

Sheilds up, sword in hand. Advancing only slowly, but with obvious intent, watching and waiting for him to make the first strike, at least until she is close enough to take the initiative on her own. Come on you big thing, you're just one more for the tally.