Deja strains to pick out Alwin's words over the storm, notes where he's pointing, then shakes her head in resignation at Wrenn's summation.  Her pale skin, pink in the icy wind, peeks as she tugs down the scarf for a moment to reveal a wry grin.  "Maybe luck, maybe fate-- anything else and we'd be dead.  Let's<i>go</i>," she shouts tucking the scarf back into place and drawing the seal-hide hood around her face like a tunnel as she follows Wrenn's lead.  She offers a clap on the shoulder to Alwin-- encouraging, sure, but barely felt through the thick clothing.