Frank really wouldn't know the difference if it bit him, short of Foggy saying as much to him, which he would never hold his breath for. There are more than a few differences in the man before him from the one he once represented, though they might not be immediately apparent. He has a ward, for one thing, a sixteen-almost-seventeen-going-on-forty-seven know-it-all-superhero of a ward, but a ward just the same. Frank had grown quite attached to Kamala after his last jaunt around the multiverse, something he's pretty open about when you can get him talking. Despite his relatively well-known status in the villages, however, no one other than the obvious seems to have gleaned just who exactly he is yet. It's something that suits him fine when he isn't sure if he'll ever identify as The Punisher again. He doesn't think he'll ever have cause to in this place, at the very least, unless they finally get to meet up with their alleged Observers.

"It's both," Frank answers, a little belated. That's the other thing that's different other than his hair: his once booming, confident voice has been replaced by an almost demure whisper. It's still just as gruff, like glassy ashphalt, but the volume is so low it can scarcely be heard over the icy wind. "Let me know if you need anything, we've got more than we know what to do with." Green milk and butter from the groffle, creamy cheese and purple wool from the zalpaca, and of course more normal wool from the sheep. Frank was good at survival and had made it his business to make sure everyone who cared to be was prepared for Winter. Foggy would be no exception.