The blizzard would be bad enough on its own-- especially when Loki is dressed no where near warmly enough to combat the bone deep cold determined to seep into him-- without being knocked into the snow drifts quickly building up around him, and the last thing he's truly expecting is something solid catching squarely up against his side.

Immediately he thinks it must be some sort of beast. There's one long moment suspended in time where the cold feels less daunting in anticipation of claws and teeth he's sure will be finding him next when he knows he'll only have similar means of defending himself. Much as he isn't use to the cold, he isn't use to being left so laughably vulnerable either, and the idea of being without weapon or magic to defend himself with has been a perpetual source of dread settled low in his chest since he'd arrived.

But instead of claws there is a hand clutched firmly around his arm and instead of a beast there is--a man, barely reached to his shoulder and dragging Loki along though the snow as if he's a child.

He'd been on edge even before this stranger had startled him, tired and cold and irritated, and Loki doesn't stop himself from the urge to wrench his arm free from the other's grasp, snapping out over the wind, "I don't need to be led, thank you."