Promise figures out the glacier and makes a coldspot along the wall of it, then looks in on her plants (she sits the bird on a tree branch, as decoration), and then she goes into the nice warm house and curls up on the floor, wings spread over herself like a leafy blanket, and sleeps.

Ari stays up a while longer, diagramming spells and planting the frostberry vine (he chips a depression in the now-arctic glacier and places a berry inside, then fills a bowl with his blood and pours it onto the berry gradually; it soaks in the blood and sends out thorny creepers along the ice, not seeming to care that frozen water contains no nutrients whatsoever). After a while, though, he falls asleep in a snowdrift. It is very soft.

Ari was not informed of continuing snowfall! He is happily buried, but snoring loudly enough that finding him is less search-and-rescue and more Marco Polo.

Promise digs him out of the snow. "Don't mortals need to breathe?" she wonders aloud. She can't really drag him anywhere, but she can brush snow off of his person.

His breathing appears to have been protected by an overhang of the glacier, which allowed only a light dusting of snow to encounter his face. The digging rouses him, however, and he sits up blearily. "G'morning?" he hazards.

"Good morning. You were buried under snow. You can go back to sleep if you want, but I recommend doing it in the house."

"Won't you suffocate, even if you can't freeze?"

"The snowfall won't always be that light."

Promise snorts and goes back to nudging the plants. One of the bushes has produced edible bark, although not a lot of it; she has some for breakfast.

"The floor wasn't that comfortable, but between the various plants I think I'll be able to make pillows within a few sleep cycles."

"Alright. Wish you could use the snow, but- temperature."

"Yes. I'm not going to say it's completely beyond sorcery, I don't know all of it, but it's not straightforward."

"I could try to help it magically, but I don't know frostberries."

"Hm. You could help it with blood, I'm sure yours would be good for it, but you seem to be more careful with it than I am. It's not totally necessary, just helpful. I'll give it a good amount of mine, at any rate."

"I mean, I won't die of blood loss, but if I'm missing enough of it I'll be too faint to do anything, including get the rest of our food supply growing."

"And I've got more blood than you do. Strapping Nordic man, I am." He sets about collecting a bowl. "Well, Nordic-ish. Probably."

"I don't even know what that means."

"I'm going to go out on a limb and say fairies don't have race politics." He clay-bandages his arm and begins dribbling blood onto the central node of the vine, where the seed-berry once was. A certain amount of baby-talk is involved.

"Uh, no, there's - politics, between kinds, some, especially breeders. But I don't know what Nordic in particular means. Why are you talking like that to the plant?"