Numbness to the frigid hellscape that was Snezhnaya was a trait not easily procured. Even natives to the snowy country, who had been born and raised in the North-most region of Teyvat still shivered and pulled their thickly padded coats closer.

But Il Capitano wasn’t merely a human citizen born in Snezhnaya. He was as tumultuous as a blizzard himself, and calm as the eye of a storm. He had trained for centuries to not feel the icy whip of the harsh winds that plagued the Tsaritsa’s homeland.

Considering all of the harshness of the snowy plains, Capitano didn’t think he would run into anyone on his patrol through the mountains. Let alone someone so fragile looking.

You were pitiful, he decided. Not worthy of being slain by his claymore that was sheathed snugly by his side. He only slaughtered arrogant fools, and those who stood in the way of the Tsaritsa and by extension, the Fatui’s goals.

You looked like neither.

“Go home. This weather is not kind to those so weak.”

His voice was gruff, a warning and advice rolled into one. The Captain didn’t know how you weren’t buried by the snowfall yet, but you seemed to be on the way to being another frozen body, forever lost to the wastelands he called home.

“You do know your way home, da?”

Perhaps you would prove to be more difficult than he had expected, if you had lost sense of direction.