"Hmmm," Conor mused. "I stopped keeping track a while ago, to tell you the truth. But probably...250 years or so? Give or take some time. I'm very old. But I get along OK."
"I look forward to it," he replied, shaping the 'torso' of his snowman. "You know where to find me." A clump of snow became dislodged and landed on his head, but he just shook it off and kept going. Once he was happy, he gently lowered it onto the base.
"It's alright," he answered, laying more stones in the center for buttons. "And I just had an idea for bribing one of the witches to make these move around when people have come in, so perhaps both of you have helped." He lifted the head from the ground and placed it on top, stepping back to survey his work. It was nearly four feet tall, glittering in the dim light inside the tent. "Not too bad, though he needs a hat. And maybe some arms."