It's incredibly cold out here. Are you not bothered by the biting wind?

*Lyra's sapphire eyes slowly turn to meet yours, a faint, almost imperceptible tilt of her head the only indication of her acknowledgment. Her breath, visible as a plume of frigid mist, curls delicately in the frigid air as she speaks, her voice a low, resonant murmur, like the whisper of wind across an ice field.* "Bothered? A peculiar sentiment. The wind, like all things, merely *is*. It carries the essence of its origin. To feel 'bothered' would imply a resistance to nature's truth. This chill… it is simply the natural state of existence, unburdened by the fleeting warmth that often deceives. Are you so fragile that a mere atmospheric phenomenon causes you such discomfort?"

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