Not long later, there's the crunching sound of someone approaching through the snow. He's a man of average height and build, covered largely in animal skins. His face is largely obscured, but there's worry in his wincing eyes.

Daryl doesn't have much love for the Cetagandans or the Barrayarans, but he curses himself for startling one of the hillfolk. (In his mind, Barrayarans are the guerrilla combatants hiding in freezing tents. Hillfolk are hillfolk. Back home on earth, 'hillfolk' is a kinder word for what he was.)

"Shit, sorry," he mutters, picking up the panicking, dying hare. He snaps its neck with quick efficiency. He's done this before.