For perhaps no more than an hour, it was not snowing in Salvar. As they walked down into Geflen itself, Dan looked up at the drab, subdued sun, surrounded by thick gray clouds, as far as the eye could see. While so very different in climate, Salvar and Fallien were so similar. They were both bleak, somber lands that produced some of the strongest men and women the world ever cared to know. From whirling, burning sands, to merciless, somber snows, they were both countries of austere extremes. But when he found himself on the roads of the village, he saw people from everywhere. People from Corone, their plain, fresh-off-the-boat accents ringing nostalgic on his ears. Elves of Raiarea, many with their hair shorn almost to their scalps, still marked by their elegant, peaked ears. Dark haired and dark eyed tribesmen from the deserts of Fallien, looking uncomfortable in thick fur cloaks. Almond eyed Akashimen, some carrying the long, curved swords of their home. Some half-orcs, their skin shades from olive to leaf green, and a small collection of drow, who paused their dice game to give him a silent nod. Dan paused for a second in the din of the village, staring at the dark-elf women with a small grin. He'd always had a bit of...predilection for drow girls. He recalled one from his days in Gild's Brotherhood - what had been her name? It would come to him, but the night itself was one he happily wouldn't forget.

Gram chuckled and pulled on his shoulder, and out of reflex, he pulled the robe's collar up higher around his face. "No need for that." The dwarf laughed and gestured to the people of Geflen. A hundred strange eyes looked at him, and he could feel the hair rise on the back of his neck, digging his heels into the hard packed snow of the dirt road. The smell of a chicken soup filled his nostrils from a huge pot a few steps up the road, where a smiling family of four were holding out tin mugs to be filled by a laughing man with a huge burn scar that had taken his ear and half his face. Wood smoke, burning tobacco, and the savory scent of foods that made his nearly toothless mouth water - but not even the smallest scent of the metallic tang of blood.

"They know you boy, aye, but I don't believe anyone save for Lukas wants you dead. I think you could travel to the top of the world, and a snowman would say hey, that's Dan Lagh'ratham! If we wanted you dead...well, they'd have killed you by now, aye? You've been laid up in old Mabel's house for a week. If anyone had it in mind, think we'd take chances with someone like you? Well, Lukas did, but you didn't kill him..." Gram trailed off, his attention going to the horizon, then abruptly began walking off down the road, to the west of the village. From elsewhere, not from the depths of his thick coal robe, Dan pulled a long silver pipe from the air, Smaug's Pipe, and tucked it between his lips, lighting it from a crumpled box of matches in his pocket, leaving the family and the scarred man in a petulant cloud of smoke.

The snow banks became deeper as they ventured out of Geflen, the dwarf taking the lead, his pace setting him towards the nearby treeline. The rywan trees grew so close together they looked like a line of soldiers, steeled for battle, their long green needles intertwining into each other like plates of identical military mail. Above their incredibly tall peaks, he could see a thinning column of pale gray smoke climbing into the pale gray sky. "Damn, thought I tossed enough water on the cinders. Well, if my house burns down, I'll sleep at your's, aye? Your little home is right over here," The dwarf pointed to the right of the smoke, his path angling towards it. Dan couldn't see anything through the phalanx of rywan, until they drew closer. The tall trees closed around him, and as they drew closer to his home, for a cantankerous moment, he wondered if the dwarf's house was bigger than his. From the outside, it could be called cozy; the cabin was tucked into the forest, the windows were made of thick glass, warped in odd, abstract designs that curled and twisted, and its red brick chimney struggled to challenge the trees. It was built or rough hewn logs that gave the cabin something of a mirthful, rotund appearance. The hinges of the front door creaked, and Gram murmured something about oil, before turning to the saraelian and grinning, arms outstretched in welcome. Dan said nothing, only nodding, and the dwarf dropped his arms, his frown pulling his handlebar mustache at the corners.

Even still, Dan was suspecting an attack. He'd brought out Smaug's pipe for the sake of the plume of flame it could produce from his lips; if finally, the welcome was revealed as a trick, he could at least begin his volley with that. The dwarf hadn't noticed the large, double barreled gun he'd summoned to his right thigh, nor the delicately vibrating Blade of Death on his left thigh. If anything, he'd been caught by surprise. Even a lukewarm welcome was so very rare to him that the slightest sign of pleasantness immediately put him on guard. Taking the silver pipe from his mouth, he exhaled a long, blue-gray stream of smoke into his cabin, and decided he was going to have to buy furniture, or he'd be sleeping on the chilly floor boards.

"I'm not exactly used to saying thank you," Dan replied after another hit off the pipe, the smoke hanging in long, ethereal tendrils in the cloud-drowned sunlight struggling through the windows. "But...thank you, Gram."

The grin returned, and the dwarf perked up, snapping his fists to his broad waist, puffing his chest out - indeed, it swelled visibly under his furs - and let out another loud laugh that shook the dust off the rafters. "No need for thanks, boy! I felt responsible for you, after I found you half dead out in the deeper woods, aye! Now, what say you about getting some exercise? Been in bed for a week, aye? Come out on the hunt with me. We'll put some fire in that belly, and some thunder in them bones again! And you're already ready, you got that big gun on your hip!" Chuckling, the dwarf pushed past the saraelian and out back into the snow again, but Dan didn't immediately begin to follow. The coal in his pipe had almost breathed its last before he turned, shaking off his astonishment. He'd always seen dwarves as rock skulled clock junkies. Gram was a different sort it seemed.

Before he followed the dwarf's broad footsteps, he pause by his door, and reached into the else where that he'd dug his pipe out of him. A long, dark green ribbon, spotted with old blood came to his hand. He held it to his nose, but the smell of his little girl had long since faded away. Looking at it made him sick. Looking at it brought him back to the other cabin, in golden sunshine, drenched in blood. It brought him back to Claire's dead, glazed eyes. To Meredith's shattered window, where he'd found the ribbon. It was a pain the necromancer's curse could never match, even as the strength left his arms and the death edged through his veins. It was a deep, throbbing ache that never, ever stopped. He tied the ribbon to the door handle with great tenderness, careful not to tear it. It had gone threadbare, little spots nearly worn colorless by the absent stroking of his thumb.

It was important not to forget that pain. With it, nothing could kill him. Nothing in this blood soaked world could hurt him more. "I'm sorry, baby," the whisper was so low, it was almost soundless as he stroked an end of the ribbon. "I'm so sorry. I love you. I won't let this kill me. Not until I can bring you back here, safe." He heard Gram call his name, and his hand flashed to the butt of his gun. Anger flashed quickly; how dare he interrupt the saraelian's moment? But within a few, choking breaths, he pushed the hate down, let his hand fall to his side, and then quietly shut the door of his new home.