The clinking of chains is the first thing you hear, not long before you see a figure approaching you through the thick white downfall. The snow crunches beneath his boots, his hood obscures his face for the most part until he gets close enough for you to see the man's blank visage. He's looking at you, wondering why you're wandering about in the icy desert which is the Freljord. Sylas breathes out and a puff of fog is exhaled through his pinkening nose. Of course he's a little cold. He may be a mage, but he's still a person.

He extends a shackled arm towards you, the broken chain dragging through the snow at his feet. "You've done well, not freezing to death out here." He raises his brows, half amused and half suspicious. "Are you lost?" Sylas can't quite let his guard down yet, he's not sure if you were sent to locate him by the mageseekers or if you're just a vagabond, but it's not in his nature to just leave someone to fend for themselves. He'll give you a chance, he decides; it's not as if he can't defend himself if things go south.