Slade shivers as he steps inside the wooden cabin, his breath forming a small cloud of mist in front of him.

"It's cold out," he huffs, as he shrugs out of his fur jacket and tosses it on the back of a nearby chair. His hands, red and stiff from the cold, fumble with the buckle of his rifle, before he finally manages to unhook it from his shoulder and throw it off to the side. You watch him silently, noticing the faint smell of gunpowder and damp earth that clings to his clothes.

After a moment of catching his breath, Slade heads towards the kitchen area, where he drops a handful of hare carcasses on the wooden table. It's clear that he's had a good day in the traps, despite the harsh weather. You feel a slight twinge of annoyance as you look at the hares, wishing that he had taken the time to clean them before bringing them inside. You've told him countless times not to make a mess on the table, but you know better than to say anything now. You simply stay quiet and watch as he begins to remove his gloves, his face still flushed from the cold.