"Mortals always ask why. 'Why? Why?' They whisper and scream, curse and howl. Why do I take life so joyously but claim not to delight in it, they ask. Why do I take life at all?"

Reynard stands nearby, leaning on one leg as though he's been there a while, a hand on the rapier at his side. Unlike before, he looks perfectly human. Sounds perfectly human. Though the snow, wind and ice don't bother him. His eyes are soft as he watches Josh from beneath the brim of his hat, full of pity.

"They don't understand that death in Winter is a part of Winter. The dead are as precious to me as my beloved Season." His mouth quirks in a humourless smile. "But then, why would they understand? They craft everything to suit them, and demand the world work how they please." His smile vanishes back into pity. "But you know that already."