So much for pleasantries. He never had much time for those anyway.

The heat emanating from the stills is immediately too much for him to bear, and even with the cold still gnawing at his skin, he suddenly feels as though the very marrow of his bones will catch fire if he doesn't shed a few layers. So he does just that while Johanna chastises him, pulling off his cloak and coat and unwinding scarves from around his neck. All are dropped onto the floor; he'll deal with them later.

"Wagon axle split halfway up the pass," he replies, winded, and turns to face her at last. He gestures wearily in the general direction of the city. "The rest of the caravan went back to Cliffside, but I thought I could make the return trip on foot before sundown. Clearly," he finishes, "I was incorrect."

None of those were the words he'd intended to greet her with, but whatever he'd had prepared seems to have fled him now. He regards her in the dim light with something like uncertainty in his expression; a different man would know how to greet a lover after months of separation, but Adhemar is not that man.