Hey, you little--! [It takes his whole arm to wipe the snow from the side of his face and neck after being pelted. The Riverfall boys give a loud, long whoop of noise in victory, but when Jake squats behind a piece of building to begin hurriedly balling up snow, the pack of kids instead begin squealing.] That's it.

You guys are going to regret icing me.

[By the time he's finished making one of the biggest, tightly packed balls he can possible throw, someone new is in the line of sight.] You! Get out of the damn way!

[While others are toasted on maple mead, Jake forgoes only for the sake of being alert in case something happens. He had a sip to take off the edge, but he's instead dodging celebratory festivities in favor of sweeping snow from the peaks of his bunking tent and making sure the horses are fine.

One or two that don't have a winter coat get a small blanket which he smooths out carefully. The hooves of a few get pinned between his knees and thighs as he looks the bottom of them over, and his voice, though unintelligible, can be heard talking to them as he works with the small hand pick.]

[Through and through, Jake is a guerilla fighter. He's use to being a mercenary. He's more prone to hand-to-hand fighting, but he's not opposed to strategic trickery.

Someone too smooth and polished to be an ally comes scouring through the base they are infiltrating, someone with too many amenities. He waits in the shadows against the wall on the opposite side of the doorway. When you pass, whether fast or slow, he ducks out and wraps an arm around your shoulders and collar; the other hand brings the nasty, partially serrated knife around beneath your chin.] Going somewhere?