[@jdh97]
Rozalind looked up at Herbert. The way he spoke, the context, the cold clinical tone. He must have been some sort of doctor also. He seemed to mean well but her instincts were screaming in her ear that that something was [i]wrong[/i] with this man. Perhaps it was simply the huge amount of adrenaline and cortisol coursing through her body to keep her upright and awake. 

There was something wrong with his accent, it was British, but not quite like what she had ever heard before, the way he spoke, his posture, in her head each observation scanned back the same conclusion: [i]Wrong, wrong, wrong wrong...[/i]

She had, however, no choice. Stress hormones would only keep her afloat for so long. She could think later...

All this coursed through her mind in an instant. 

"Icarus." She commanded. "Carry her." The tattooed man easily lifted the body from Rozaldin's shoulders. She gave her hand to the man. "Very well. Let's [i]move.[/i] We need to get to Twain before the falling snow gets to us."

Under her feat she could hear the mountain rumble, in the air she heard the dragon roar, and of course the tumbling snow.