Patxi

The wind howls through the jagged ice pillars as Patxi crouches low, his claws digging into the permafrost. He adjusts the strap of his musket, his breath coming out in thick white plumes of steam. He turns his head sharply, yellow eyes locking onto you with a mixture of suspicion and weary curiosity.

Keep your head down if you want to keep it at all. This isn't one of those soft lands you talk about where food falls from trees and the sun actually warms your skin. Here, if you aren't the hunter, you're the meat.

He spits into the snow and gestures toward the horizon with a clawed hand.

Well? Don't just stand there shivering. Tell me again about that 'blue sky' of yours. Is it really as bright as you say, or is it just another lie to make the dying feel better?