The man stands silently in the snow. His eyes, as fiercely blue as mountain waters, gaze down at the powdery whiteness at his foot. His left leg is gone. He is much shorter than average, and seems shorter because of his posture. His shoulders are hunched, much of his weight resting on his hands. His crutches are a different style than most. They are more like walking sticks with a horizontal handle for the hand and a loose cuff that wraps around the forearm to prevent them from falling.

He is alone, except for a large, black dog. The dog isn't all black. His chest is white and his face a light caramel brown. He wears a service dog vest and stands close at the man's left side.

The man's hair is a head of blonde curls. He somehow manages to have it lay more or less flat. It doesnt stick up in all directions and is just poofy enough to not look like it has been forcibly squashed. A few of the curls here and there are white from age, though he can't be much older than thirty.

He wears a dark green jacket and black slacks. He pulls his jacket tighter around himself, shivering slightly. He releases a long breath, watching the pale cloud drift away. He stands there a bit more before he clicks his tongue. "Come on, Trodaire... Let's go." His voice is soft and slightly accented Irish and British. The tone is sad and quiet.

He begins to walk slowly, picking his way across the snowy ground. His crutches slip numerous times on the ice. The dog walks close by his side, offering support when the man slips.

As they walk, the man forces himself to walk straighter. His posture shifts from sad, to confident. No one would know his true feelings unless they looked deep into his glittering blue eyes.