The sun is setting on a quiet wood, a still, icy lake, and a small frowny Frenchman out for a walk in sweater and fuzzy hat.

[because hey, they might even not fight! what a concept!]

Feuilly is slouched in one of the oversized armchairs that abound in this place, his elbow propped on one arm of the chair and his head on his hand. The cuffs of his shabby shirt are rolled up, and his free hand is balancing a dry-looking tome. He scowls a little in concentration.