"Drifting," Val notes, lightly. "If you move while you stand you will not lose your balance so easily. There is no need to step so elephantine."

He plants the shovel in the snowbank and leans his weight on it, elbow resting on the end. His portrait might be painted so: elegant, relaxed, well-dressed. The cold is not so cold as to be truly unpleasant. Indeed it makes for a nice change.

"We have mages in Kirkwall. Why do we not ask for them to cast some magic to turn our courtyard to ice? It could be sustained for some hours. And then you could better learn to skate. By Andraste," as he cranes his neck to look at where Alexandrie has found her biscuit, "that will be a difficult shot for the lady. Do you think she will manage? She is fairly sporting."