"Trust me to warm you up—or do you want to get in the tent?" he teases, eyebrow raised. As far as he's concerned, this is a challenge now—they're no shemlen, no lowlanders. They're staying outside, snow be damned.

Despite her attempt to warm herself up, her hand is still cold when Astrid touches him. Not unbearably so, though, and even as he hisses from the chill his hips rock into her grip, not away from it. Talin has always been expressive, vocal in his pleasure, even in an aravel in the middle of camp, and that's changed very little even now: Astrid twists her wrist and he sighs; she adjusts her pace and he groans low in the back of his throat, teaching her what he likes. His un-self-conscious noises only end up muffled when he ducks his head to set his teeth to the curve of her breast, gentle for now as he lifts his eyes to check if she likes it.

A lock of dark hair falls artfully into his eyes, his lashes flutter appealingly, and at the corner of his mouth where it sits poised on her tit, a smirk curls. He's very aware of how attractive he is, and he's pleased to be in a position to be admired for it.

(But only by a select few.)