[He'd echo the sigh, but he was expecting this disappointment, really. The snowball at least feels lighter when he picks it up, but that's not the objective.

Though given he was trying to get it to do something outside its nature, what did he expect.] Yes; this much pollution for nothing would be sinful, and would ruin your clothes.

[He tosses and catches the snowball, frowning to himself.] You might start--perhaps I am simply not, hm, sweet-talking the blood well enough? Or the snow--

[Almost as a joke, he switches to Shriketongue and addresses his snowball,] ((Snow, it would please me greatly if you started floating.))

[Nothing seems to happen.

Well, nothing, except it's started snowing again.

The wrong direction, as flakes begin lifting off the pile and drifting back up into the air.]