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O N E. the hunter. word count: 3559
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IF A WILD ANIMAL or carefully placed blaster bolt didn't kill you, the frigid cold would. Miles of white ice stretched on without end in front of your eyes, your helmet splattered with numerous beads of ice and snow. The bandana wrapped around your neck was furiously flying about in the harsh wind, and all warmth that once occupied it was escaping, letting the sleet slip in and down the neck of your cropped, padded jacket. The buckles of your harness were locked together with frost. Your gloves were soaked in sweat and water. The metal plating of your boots were clumped with ice. Your blaster and dagger were frozen in their holsters.
This, you knew, was officially the worst planet you've hunted on.
Worst of all, the cape your pilot lent to you - however unwillingly - wasn't stopping even an ounce of the snow. It too was tossed about like paper in the wind, the frayed and split ends clumped with snow, the fabric wet and mushy. The hood reeked of stale alcohol and old ship oil, but at least the filter in your mask kept any more pungent scents away from your nose and mouth.
The hike up the canyon was torture on your legs and the blizzard chilled you to the bone, draining the blood from your flesh and sucking the warmth from your body. It was a continuous climb up slick slopes blanketed in inches of white; even with the hooks at the point of your boots proved that travel on the planet was near impossible.
Damn the ferrymen, you thought. Damn it all. There had to be a better way.
Your fingers clasped the edge of the thin ice wall in front of you, bits and pieces crumbling under the weight of your hand. You used the protruding chunks beneath you to keep your hold, your free hand cleaning away any sleet that collected on the lenses of the old binoculars that hung around your neck.
Finally, you pulled yourself up over the ridge and brought them to your eyes.
Past the shimmering, glassy snowflakes that collected on the lenses, a small town came into view.
The town only consisted of a handful of buildings, with some crumbling from the weight of the everyday blizzard, their roofs caved in and their windows shattered. The ones not dilapidated or barren were not well managed, with shutters glazed in frost and grime and front porches splintered and swollen from years of thawing, only to havwi freeze all over again. One such building, however, showed signs of life: a tavern more well-kept than all the others, its windows aglow with orange light and the echo of voices rising past the howling winds.
You slowly lowered your binoculars before pulling in a deep breath.
One, two, three . . .
You lunged, flinging yourself over the solid snowdrift in front of you, landing with a muted thud in the snow.
