"Oh Tyr's tits it's cold," he said to himself. Like many soldierslangs it didn't make much sense. And yet it was perfect because it really was that cold. Cold enough for blasphemy.
The winter harvest wasn't actually much of a harvest, considering the ground was frozen dead. Harvest was used loosely, as this was a time of moving stored goods from storage and out into circulation. They did have a few hearty rootfoods that grew right into the frigid sleep on winter, and coupled with the grains and ales they were taking from storage, he had quite a bit to keep track of.
"We've got fucking accountants for this sort of thing," he told a tree. He slipped his flask away and was just about to relieve himself on a tree when he was set upon.
There wasn't much of a scuffle. He let himself fall into the snow and wrapped an arm around his captor, hugging it close. For whatever reason it didn't occur to him to be violent.
"It's me, Vedette. Don't yell or she'll hear us."
"Who?!" he demanded. He rubbed snow in the woman's face and stood up. Brushing the crunchy snow from his deerskin pants he made his way round the other side of the tree.