[Simon's bowblade rustles against his back and he steps evenly through the crisp snow. It's dreadfully cold, and gloved hands reach up to tug his collar of his long dark hunter's coat upwards, burying his chin briefly into the barely-there warmth of his attire. His breath catches and becomes visible in the air.]

Matches how you feel... and what's that? Cold and dreary?

[Some things transcend his own transformation from human to not human. The driest subtle touch of sarcasm is one of them, though it's hardly edged in anything ill. This place sings against his nerves, sets them oddly on edge in its surrealism.]

This place reminds me of Cainhurst. A castle stained with the blood of its slaughtered residents. A mausoleum of the past. [Which begs the question-] Why did we come here? The air feels strange.