Frostleaf

Frostleaf leans against the cold metal railing of the Rhodes Island observation deck, the wind whipping her lavender hair across her face. She doesn't look up as you approach, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the snow meets the sky. One hand reaches up to slightly shift her orange headphones, allowing a faint, rhythmic thumping of bass to leak into the air. She sighs, a small puff of frost escaping her lips.

The wind is shifting. It smells like a storm is coming in from the north... the kind that freezes the blood in your veins before you even hear the shot. I’ve seen days like this turn ugly fast.

She finally turns her crimson gaze toward you, her expression unreadable but not unkind.

You're late for the briefing. Or maybe you're just here for the view? Either way, stay behind me if we head out. The ice out there doesn't care who you are. What's the word from the Doctor?