Arngeir met the Ivarstead trader as rarely as old men ever ate their fill. Necessity only brought Arngeir to the coffer once a few days, or perhaps a few weeks, if the offerings had been plenty. By that time, the trader's burlap sack would have been frozen, preserving its contents of freshly crisp vegetables and tender meats.

The first time Arngeir ever met him - Klimmek, he believed was his name - he was still a fairly young man. A new face, a fresher set of bones, taking up what his predecessor could no longer do.

Yet Arngeir hardly sensed the piety of any other who had the fortune of meeting a Greybeard. At his sight, the trader merely nodded in salute, and when Arngeir had turned, boots faded into the frost bitten whistles of the wind, trekking back through the snow without a word.

That is how he saw him always, the few times they met. A little nod. A few moments of silence. And then he would be again the ghost that came and went.

Pilgrims meeting him at the chest would be flushed with reverence, their voices so giddy that the insides of his ears would tremble. Arngeir wondered, in his peculiar calm, if Klimmek was at all a man of faith.

Though the Greybeards could certainly eat without certain foods, it was simply wise to keep an even stock. Food and drink would not spoil that way, being left untouched. It also kept cooking from becoming a frivolously complex task.

Gingerly, Arngeir walked out onto the patterned stone, grand and long as they were shallow, hidden deviously underneath the snow. His youth having long left his mortal body, Arngeir had only the hardiness of his Nord blood to steady his legs as he tread the steps slowly, white flakes dusting his sandals as he gently kicked through the colorless specks of ice.

He heard the creaking of the metal hinges, turning the corner just as Klimmek had laid his offerings with the other gifts left by visitors. He bowed his head respectfully, standing patiently as Arngeir retrieved what was needed in a small sack of his own.

When the bag was then full of goods, he did not turn away from Klimmek; he scanned the man meticulously, noting the clothes he wore, the wrinkles and thick Nord bone beginning to protrude from his face.

"I hope you are well, trader." Arngeir said calmly, as he closed the coffer without the clang of steel and wood. The sudden breadth in his words took Kimmlick by surprise, gazing at the preist as if he had broken some sort of vow.

"How do you mean, Greybeard?" he asked, his voice husky from the bitterness of the cold.

"You do not seem well-rested."

Growing a slight smile, Klimmek breathed out a deep, wistful sigh, nodding dolefully in agreement. "I am older." He said. "My knees have begun to give way. I do not know how many more times I can climb the Throat."

Many carry-men had passed through his life, one after the other, but the confession nontheless took Arngeir by surprise. He still saw that young man, yesterday waiting patiently in the gust without an utter of disruption. "So the people of Ivarstead must soon choose another?" Arngeir said, the grace in his speech making it more a statement than a question.

Klimmek looked out from the mountain ledge into the world beyond, the many cities and towns all but pinpricks in the distance. "Yes, but I would not know when. Ivarstead has not been immune to the war."

For a moment, Arngeir's mind trailed into the faint hills of the Eastmarch, understanding the hint of unease that was woven in Klimmek's words. "Then shall I ask you a question, trader, should I not have the chance again?"

Without answer, Klimmek looked away from his daze and met the priest's eyes in expectation. Arngeir turned to the sky for a brief moment, carefully crafting his words. The ferocity of the wind had slowed to nothing but a breeze, letting docile flakes fall to their place in the snow. A few landed gently in his eyelashes, only to break and drop away as he lowered his head with a single blink. "What solace do you find when you journey the Throat, trader?" He asked, without hurry.

There was hardly the hesitation in Klimmek's eyes as Arngeir had expected, suddenly bright and focused on only what laid behind them. In that moment, Arngeir realized the trader was a thinking man; his mind strung into the spirit that gifted motive and reason, of what the Gods had made so alive and immortal.

It was a unique experience, to have one who did not long for but instead endeared all of what he did not entirely understand. "It is nature." Klimmek replied with light contentment. "It is the gift of Kyne, as we all are."

Arngeir wished more of man and mer were to share in that same mind.