Cold!

Fatherhood came naturally to Sparhawk. The big man was terribly observant and always seemed to know where his children were and what they were doing. It was like a sixth sense in a way. So when Poetry, his only son, meandered away to play in the snow, the redwood man knew. He followed the boy with his eyes until he drifted out of sight, then he followed him on foot. The rest of the brood was with their mother and he knew that they were safe.

When Poet tipped headfirst into the snow drift, Sparhawk gave a stifled little laugh, not wanting to embarrass his boy, but also not able to hold it in. By the time he'd come up behind the boy, Poet had extracted himself from the snow. The child's exclamation about the white powder brought a chuckle from the giant brute and he dropped down onto his belly, scooping the boy into the space between his forelegs. "You know, where I coming from, is snow on the ground aaaaall the time. A whole lot more than this. Snow all year. Forever." He grinned, snuffling the top of the boys head. "Is not so bad. You learn to like it."