Caspar's only nod to preparing for the current blanket of snow is to have on a sturdy pair of knee high snow boots. Otherwise he's wearing one of his suits and his thick wool coat, his head bare and only a pair of thin leather gloves on his hands.

He's been careful to avoid stubbing his toe on anything, despite a cup of coffee in one hand and a small bag of groceries in the other. But nothing can prepare him for the sudden drop into an apparant snowdrift. He swears, loudly, the cup of coffee dropping from his hand and spilling onto the pristine whiteness surrounding him.

While he's assessing the damage to his groceries (none) and his ego (slight), he hears a familiar sounding voice. "Frak," he mutters to himself before looking up at the crouching figure above him.

"You," he says, "Are an asshole." He sets aside his bag of groceries and begins to methodically dig himself out. "As for your riddle, I don't care."