His head tilts, birdlike even with the different shape, evaluating, vaguely suspicious. "Mortal remembers?" There's almost hope; it's the lack of faith that put him in the condition he is now, some days he almost remembers what it was like Before. When he was more than a bird with an ill-fitting human suit.

He shuffles his shoulders like he expects feathers to be there, then shifts and sways and finds his feet; humans stand, long legs, heads reaching for the sky. They don't squat in the dirt or snow. He's unsteady for a moment or so before he remembers where his balance is; it's easier to address the other two this way. If he notices the cold he gives no sign, evidently content to continue in the arctic as he is.

"You're snow men," he offers the Wolf as explanation. "Men of Asgard. Land of snow. No sand, no sun." He's saddened for a moment; a sun god deprived of the sun isn't a very optimistic situation. "Allfather said to meet you. Said would be here. Looking for lost things. Or things lost. Wailing doors. ...He said the door would be here, anyway."