Felwinter. It suits him very well, with the snow-wind wrapped around him like a cloak, and the cold seeming to live in his voice as much as in the world all around. She nods, noisily, to indicate her acceptance.

"Felwinter. I will not remember it," She admits it ruefully, "I have been seeking my fate for a long time, and I am not what I once was. But I will write it down, and I will try. And I may remember you, even if not your name. Felwinter."

She thinks she would recognize him. But then, that was the way of the undead, wasn't it? Oh, it's you! the common greeting at the bonfire, and no names needed in the dead land of the undying gods. What use were names anyways? You were either a friend, or you were not. That was what mattered.

"So it is a pact!" She is delighted, even to the point of clapping her gauntleted hands together, though only briefly, "We shall be friends, and help one another, in the spirit of jolly cooperation— as they say."

Who is they? Don't you worry about it.

"If you would like, you may call me Eva, of Astora. It's quite alright if you don't remember it. No one calls an undead by name, anyhow."