When the nightly patrols had started up, Theron had resisted volunteering. He didn't like people that much, and he didn't want to have to shepherd them through the wilderness in the middle of winter, especially with the possibility of wolves on the loose. His refusal had lasted all of a day, before he'd given in and written his name (one of the few things he could write) on the patrol sheet. Stormstruck had felt immensely satisfied, but she hadn't even done anything.
He arrived at the rendezvous point looking somewhat underdressed. Despite his fur-lined cloak and gloves, and thicker clothes, it didn't look like he was wearing enough to protect against the cold. He couldn't afford to sacrifice mobility for comfort, though, and the cold was nothing he hadn't felt before. The white doe at his side looked like a ghost, with her blue eyes and markings practically glowing against the snow.
It took him a moment to recognize the buck, and then the man. There was no mistaking the Guardian's markings.
"Marcus," he greeted, offering the man a gloved hand to shake.
"I haven't seen you in a while. Are you here for the patrol?" He was carrying a lantern of his own in his other hand, and he had a bow and quiver slung around his back.