Thumpthump. Thumpthump. Fenn could barely hear anything over the whirring of his own heartbeat. More hunters like the ones that had attacked in the square were here now, he assumed, and there were two possible outcomes mapped out in his head. Either Myra would swiftly dispatch them as she did before (and there would be more dead bodies), or else they would kill her and then him if he was discovered. What he did hear of the scuffle did not sound favorable. Distressed caterwauls echoed down into the chamber, and the boy tensed up, pulling the furs more tightly around him despite how they tickled and itched his sinuses. He held his breath as footsteps mingled with the sound of his strained heart, passing through the chamber with agonizing sluggishness.

It was too hot in the furs, even if Fenn radiated frost. It was too fuzzy. Without his permission, Fenn’s nose began to twitch.

No! No! No itching! Terrified, the boy slapped his hands over his nose with all haste, but it didn’t muffle the squeaky sneeze well enough. He had been caught. As it turned out, when the blankets had been lifted up off of Fenn, that wasn’t entirely a bad thing. Still about as quivery as a blob of jelly, the not-quite-boy stared up at the not-quite-god with the most dumbfounded shock. Then he pumped his fists in the air, gleeful. Not only was he being rescued, but it was by just the man he needed to see! Fenn bobbed to his feet with a grateful grin, his fear effectively converted to elation, even with the muted yowling in the background.

Seconds of digging in his bag allowed Fenn to procure a little note. It was a wrinkled, frost-smudged scrap of parchment, scribbled on in smooth green ink. He added in a few lines with a chalky charcoal pencil before showing it to his savior. Cronen took it with blink of surprise.

The note read thus;
Hello! I don’t have voice. You are the ice master Breaker, and I’m Fennik Glennwey. I came to your village because I need help figuring out ice magic. Mine is finicky at best. Please?

My dog is waiting at your village, probably, so we should return before Myra wants me again. Are there still out-of-nowhere-fighting-people around? I like being not-dead.

Yes, it was possible for Fenn to write (more or less) as if he weren't a simpleton. He had to re-scribe the note a few times to get it right. Even in a premeditated letter, the boy had a habit of writing with a certain bluntness and brevity in mind. It took some effort to deviate from his old habit. In fact, his first draft had looked more like; GREETINGS. YOU ARE ICE MASTER BREAKER? AM FENNIK. NEED YOUR HELP. YOU TEACH THINGS. TEACH ME HOW TO MAGIC. MINE SUCKS.

But that was besides the point.