The old man covered in snow is shaking himself free of it like an ungainly dog, for all the good it does. At the end he's still largely encrusted, and the appearance of his bright lively eyes and manic grin actually makes him look a good sight worse.

"Oh aye, as rain!" he exclaims, in a rather hoarse way that suggests perhaps he's only right as a light mist. "Nothing a nip of whiskey and a spell by the fire won't fix." He begins feeling around in the snow, "Now where've you gone my beaut—ha!" An equally encrusted leathern pack is heaved out of the snow just beside him, and Thom kisses the bag that encloses his harp with great abandon. His lips stick to a buckle.

"Ah 'hite."