( He hears... something, nebulous and close, and swivels twice only to find no man behind him, none in close proximity. Coming to kneel once more, he clutches snow and hand, and —

Does not throw it. Does not even make to lift the ball.

Instead, pulls out a piece of thin, drenched parchment that nearly glimmers in translucence before bursting into quiet flame, and fragmenting in six parts, each bound in a different direction, at distance.

If a threat should come, let it be seen. )

You are here, prowling. As animals do.