Evening falls in the Constant. Wes rubs his gloved hands together, stretching them out toward the fire. Beside him, Maxwell leafs through the Codex Umbra, despite surely knowing the thing back to front by now. The Winter's Feast Tree stands a safe distance from the fire, decked out in festive lights. Sadly, there are no gifts beneath it. Yet.

Maxwell doesn't look up while Wes makes his way over to the tree. He does, however, take notice when Wes starts removing the colourful lights.

"What are you doing, mime?" Maxwell growls. Wes pays him no mind, mentally counting the remaining lights. Un, deux, trois, quatre. All the light he needs.

Maxwell's caught on by now, watching only somewhat condescendingly as Wes curls up beneath the tree. In the morning, he knows, the mime will wake to see a gift. If he doesn't freeze to death, the weakling.

"Garon stupide," Maxwell mutters. Still, he goes to check his chest for a spare coat.