One of the eight figures - a man bearing the silvery eyes of the kalashtar - shivers.
'Damn these cold nights,' he says, pulling his cloak tighter around him. 'Even ale can't warm me up.' He looks at his feet. 'Can't feel my bloody toes,' he mutters.
The biggest of the eight figures - a great, hulking minotaur with fur the colour of earth and a pair of obsidian horns - speaks. His voice is slow and deep - like water falling from a great height. 'More fire, Flicker.'
'Yes, father,' a bronze-skinned man breathes, sparks flowing from his mouth. Glowing lines cover his body and as he raises his hand, flames spring from them. The snow around his feet flash into steam, and the large logs in the campfire burst into flames with renewed intensity.
Son of Hawktooth looks at his family and grins.