From within the wagon comes an alarmed sound somewhere between a caw and a chirrup; if it isn't Alvi, it's definitely not Tuo. But the soft, chiding, "hush, now," that follows can't be anyone else.

"Coming," he calls--or he would, if the cold hadn't sapped the strength from his voice, and it only gets worse when he disentangles himself from all the blankets and furs and feels the air bite at his skin. He shudders, swearing an oath under his breath, and refuses to part with the last cumbersome layer as he fumbles his way towards the door. It takes a moment for him to flip the latch with such cold fingers, but when he finally manages it, he pushes the door open enough to quickly beckon Dain inside.

"In," he whispers hastily, "before what's left of the heat escapes." From his nest of blankets, Alvi watches the pair of them with suspicious black eyes.