Someone had once said that freezing to death was a pleasant way to die. You get cold for a while, then go numb, then fall unconscious. It was supposed to feel like a warm blanket settling over you as you drifted off to sleep, and were mercifully out of sorts while your core temperature dropped low enough that your heart grew slower until its last beat. Supposedly, it was as easy as sitting down and taking a nap. Quiet, peaceful. Painless. Sir Reynald vowed to find this person and shove his sabatons as far up whoever’s ass spouted that god-awful bullshit would taste steel for a month.