Since the storm took a turn for the worse, Zevran has for the most part kept inside. Or at least he intended to keep inside but- the daily meal is a thing and there is precious little in the home he's settled in for the night. Risking the chill for a hot meal and roaring hearth seems wise enough.

Fifty steps north, thirty northeast. Simple. He'd counted when he'd noticed the winter growing, he'll be able to find his way there in no time at all.

Or, alternatively, he'll huddle into his coat, hair whipping about his face, eartips red and stinging, head down- bore full body into a lean, whippish slip of a man wandering about somewhere between steps forty three and forty four. "Brasca-"

He skitters, steadies himself and catches at the man's elbow to keep him from falling over. He doesn't ask, doesn't wait for an answer before he firms his grip on them and resumes counting, out loud, and walking. "Forty five, forty six, forty seven- We shall be at the in soon- Forty eight-"