The cyromancer stood confused at the man's change of personality. One minute he was happily jogging, the other he was screaming for lunch. It was barley 12, according to the sun perched behind the snow covered trees, and the growl at the bottom of the assassin's stomach alerted him of his sudden appetite. 

He could eat, but he would refuse to eat now. 

"Why don't you go ahead and gather supplies! I'll go kill a fox or something!" Cyro shouted nervously.