Despite the cold Rifa is surprisingly warm. Her skills with leatherworking means she's usually wearing an ample amount of fur; her time spent in climates people would usually shun also helps this. But someone else needs the heat more than she does. The old orc in front of her is a shaman at first glance, though she can't be sure. More importantly he's a bit advanced in age. They'll need to depend on each other to survive this spirits-barren place.

Her blue eyes shift to the wolf guarding him, and she holds out her hand for the creature to sniff. She smells like beasts and outdoors, pine and wood and old blood. Her heart aches for the absence of her own wolf; Greyheart has been her partner since escaping the camps. "Forgive my intrusion, shaman," she murmurs. Her voice is rich and smooth, belying her rough outer appearance. "I was scouting for supplies, but the hour grows late." She sets her pack down, but doesn't make a move until she has the wolf's permission. "I am Rifa. I did not think I would find another orc in this place."