The gifts had not been left for him. He should have known that much, by now.
Still, he could not help from watching in fascination as the villagers bustled about in their homes, faces flickering in the candlelight - so many candles! was there a festival? - voices carrying laughter, and songs. His heart ached at the sound of it.
The candles dimmed, one by one, and the town grew quiet. He noticed the treats at the windowsills as he idly drifted through the town to paint the glass with his ice. Tiny little pastries and biscuits, sugared to resemble his own work. He barely had the time to wonder at it all before a flying sleigh blew in to the town square on the winds, and came to a clattering stop on the cobblestones.
He did not bother to try hiding from the man that heaved out of the sleigh with a purposeful leap (why waste the time when one is not seen to begin with?), and instead wandered closer to inspect the strange thing.
"Quite nice, yes? The workmanship of mine own hands."
At first he paid the comment no mind. It took several cleared throats and a brusque shoulder-tap (causing him to jump so high he nearly caught the winds and soared onto the rooftops) to realize that the man was speaking to him. The man adjusted the great sack on his back and inspected him curiously.
"I have not seen you before, young friend. Have you just come into your power, perhaps?"
It was so odd. He had wanted, begged, screamed for people to speak to him, but now that one had, he was at a loss for words. The man looked so resplendant in his fine red clothes, his fine furs, his great black boots. He himself must have looked a sorry sight, in his tattered cloak and bare feet, shivering and silent and small.
The man held up one gloved hand and set his sack down heavily. He dug through it for a few moments, then produced a folded square of cloth. Shaking it out, it unfurled as thick, long cloak; woad-blue. The man handed it to him.
"Here. You appear to have some need of warm clothes."
He could only stare at the beautiful thing in his hands, uncomprehending. The man hoisted the sack onto his back and gave a hearty chuckle.
"Perhaps you would like to also partake of the sweets at the windowsills? Your help may save my tailor work on letting out my trousers."
He shook his head, absently. He had tried food before; snatched things away with the winds, sent bakers and their breads skidding across the streets with his ice. It tasted like cold ashes in his mouth and sat in his stomach like a stone.
A flask shook in front of his face. He looked up, and the man grinned at him through his beard.
"I will bear up under the duty of dispatching the sweets. But I know for a fact, my friend, that even spirits can not resist spirits."