Pleasure. He took pleasure in her huffs and the rolling of her eyes. Flokí knew that he was pressing his luck but oh the game is what excites him. The feeling that he was at the edge of her wrath - yet he toddles at that edge with a smirk pulling his lips and a mischievous sparkle in glacial blue eyes.

Oh? Just a ghost of winters past, then?"

Ghost. Yes, that would be exactly how he would describe himself. Living amongst the wisps of fog that spreads its tentacles silently into the dark pine forests. Never remaining in one place long enough to be a familiar face. "Exactly," he answers "that is exactly who I am." A wanderer. A vagabond. One who does not belong.

"I'm Svetka, and why I'm out of bed is properly none of your business she answers as she shuffles the snow beneath her hooves. "Well, Svetka," he savors the way her name slips from his lips as she continues. Now that I've given you mine, do you think you can remember your own name, or shall I christen you with one of my own making?" Proud. Sarcastic creature, he notes. As much as he would like to hear whatever pet name that would come to her mind. He figures it was best that he introduce himself instead. "Flokí Dögunson" he says gruffly as he dares to step closer to the painted girl, a smirk plays at his whiskered lips.

"But, you can call me whatever you like," he tone is low, gruff. A single ear rotates within his dense, silver forelock.