Reaching back with both hands to try to work the ice out of his hair, the Brucolac gives a faint grunt of dissatisfaction. "And you should learn not to mouth off to those that pay you," he says, without any particular rancour. "Ah, Moon's tits." Giving up, he drops his hands and shrugs. Let his hair be frosted over; fine. Definitely not the worst thing that's ever happened to it.

"Your bullshit conclusion aside," and here he flashes a fang in a lopsided grin, "you're right, I'm sure. Something to be learned. But hell if I'm not more interested in just defrosting my damn..." It's not a city. It's really not a city. "Settlement."