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[color=gray]Parched on the snow with a knee upwards and an arm resting, Nyester Onigen rested by a tree, letting the large trunk shield him from the wind. He had advised Dmitri Krepchenko from taking this route, and indeed, he thought himself correct in saying, [color=darkgray]“нет.”[/color] There was a bad feeling in the air. He could smell it clearly. It cut through the wind like a rotten egg. It caused him to become ever more so disenchanted with the shenanigans the Host was doing tonight, and Nyester decided to take watch, instead. The feeling in his gut was unsettling, and even the newcomer was warranting a foul stench to him. He understood she would be better by the morrow, washed from that filthy heresy she had not minded until the Host came about her. 

[color=darkgray]“Ложитесь с собаками, и вы встанете с блохами,”[/color] he told himself, fanning a hand in front of his face. The wind was sharp, as well. He felt colder than he ought to feel. In more ways than one, he supposed. There was no use in being a legal man, but as an old wolf, he knew a thing or two, whether Dmitri acknowledge them or not was another discussion Nyester would argue tooth and bone until he was buried underneath the Holy Land. Honor and dignity relied on it, like truth against the foul lies. He might be hard, but he had something in his teeth that he knew was right, [color=darkgray]“Agios Yuri,”[/color] he mumbled to no one in particular.

To Nyester, this was war. It always was war. He had a hard time enjoying himself when all he could see were the places where the Host had blackness and cracks. There were holes where not just prayer was needed. He was no monastic and thought himself to be the only one who ever bothered to mend and fill those places with something useful and worthwhile. It stretched him thin many of times and frayed his spirits. 

[color=darkgray]“You speak?”[/color] The gruffness of Iosef Moskvin’s voice was hushed and growled through the area. His large hand was held on his detachment, and the chin was tucked under with his bushy facial hair, scanning the grounds with a mean penance. Nyster was never in his favor. There was something abominably negative about him. Iosef believed it to be the port man’s surname, which sounded oddly familiar to a certain heretic he once learned about. [color=darkgray]“Any more, and we will be deaf to the outside,”[/color] he mused, letting his tongue curl inside the softness of his mouth, sucking on the dew that had developed in his warmed position. He was a tough man, and therefore, he worked well with Nyester, even if he did not care for the other.

[color=darkgray]“To foes?”[/color] Nyester shook his head, mumbling under his breath. Iosef was a fool. His jokes were rarely ever clever and never funny, but the man had power of his own. Like a rock, he was solid against the terrain. He was one of the few that Nyester knew to never get injured. Twitching his nose, his body arose and trotted forward, to escape the presence of his comrade momentarily, but as he took another step, the sound of his boot chunked into the icy snow sounded unnaturally different. A chill took the wind, and silence beckoned across the land. The foul smell still hung in the air, much more noticeably now, and the man turned. The crinkling in the cloth of his clothes could be heard by Iosef, who was no longer visible to Nyester. Neither Cossack dared make another sound. The snuff of heavy breaths could be heeded. Both men knew what this could be.[/color]