The corpse jerks to the side with a violent lurch, but doesn't jump to life in time to dodge the spell completely. A thousand pins and needles stab outward from the skin on his arm, and it hangs limp as he springs to his feet. His hat flutters down to the indentation he left in the snow and reveals cold, keen eyes that aren't red pinpricks of light, nor empty sockets, but brown irises on the eyes of what very well could be a living man. His loose arm betrays that notion, at least until he reaches for it with the other and slots it back into his shoulder socket with a dry pop.

Then, like quicksilver, his hand is at his waist as he scans the snow for footprints. Before he can spot any, a wisp of breath catches the corner of his eye instead. With another swift movement of his hand, a shot rings out, startling a whole host of crows in the trees into a noisy retreat farther into the woods.

One friendly greeting merited another in return.