Rasso curls comfortably up in a ball under the snow, insulated by the spell against the cold. It's actually quite comfortable, and soon he finds himself drifting off to sleep. His eidolon shell fades away as his consciousness does, and the snow collapses to fill up the now empty space around the merman. Curled as he is a fetal position, Rasso's slight form barely constitutes a mound above the rest of the surrounding white. He dreams of the tundra, and a cackling old woman riding a mortar and pestle through the snowy trees.