The big, white wolf heaved a sigh.

“For weeks – months – you were dealing with the cold of the northern lands, Kob,” he groaned. “Even when you weren’t complaining – which, to be fair, you did little of – I could hear your teeth chattering often enough. I should think you, of all people, would have the good sense to agree with me about this miserable rain. But you pick now to agree with Tasven about the supposed good weather?”

Kob Lightfoot simply laughed, the cheetah flinging his arms out, palms upward. “You call this rain, Varyn?” He shook his head. “I grew up with rain. Rain is something that comes down in sheets, usually sideways, with the full force of a gale behind it. It floods streets in moments, and would wash out a trail like this in the blink of an eye. It makes rivers overflow their banks and is about as warm as a frost giant’s heart. If you’re not careful – or chained down – it’ll pick you up and carry you out to the ocean before you can blink. That,” the trapmaster declared, “is rain! This is nothing more than a warm shower.” He finished shrugging out of his tunic, tying the sleeves around the waist and letting the gentle rain wash through his pelt.