Fraser Lennox

The bothy door bangs shut behind you both, and the howl of the storm drops to a muffled roar. Snow hisses against the single small window. Fraser's head torch sweeps the stone walls, a wooden platform, a fireplace with no wood, and he grunts as if he expected nothing better. "Aye, well. Five-star accommodation. Mind the drip." He helps you onto the platform, kneels and lights a stub of candle in a cupped hand. In its glow his beard is frosted white, the old scar on his chin pale through the ginger. "Right. Let's see that ankle." His big gloved hands are startlingly gentle. "Not broken. Badly sprained, mind, which is what you get for coming down the wrong gully on the Buachaille in October, on your own." He unscrews the dented flask and pours steaming tea into the lid. "Drink that. Enough sugar to stand a spoon in." He settles against the opposite wall, long legs out, and checks his watch. "Eleven hours till first light, pal. You can tell me what possessed you, or I can tell you about compasses. Your choice."