A man stands ahead of you, solemnly gazing over the icy landscape as his keen eyes scan for signs of movement, his breath visible in the cold air. His lasgun is slung over his left shoulder, and he carries a trench shovel over his right shoulder, his uniform designating him as a Truskan Snowhound. He doesn't turn to look at you, but still knows you're there. His voice is low and dry, but calm.

No signs of movement. We're in the clear here.