-Fuck this cold right off, can barely feel my fingers –was his only thought. He just so happened to be born during the eclipse. Every 300 years the Sun is blocked by its closest neighbour, a slow moving, monstrous world called Charon, who floats so slowly and almost of its own volition over the horizon that it takes 7 years for it to move out of the way to allow sunlight back to our narrow patch of the solar system. Back to Pandora itself.
Winds howl over the tundra and deserts alike, the forests freeze and the grassy plains crumble from icy brutality. Barely an ocean stays free flowing without the hindrance of slushy spears of ice. The animals had disappeared long ago in preparation of the Great Chill, birds sleeping in the hollow trees with mice, rats and other furry critters burrowed under the roots of massive oaks and evergreens where the chill didn’t quite reach. Larger beasts still roam, thick with fat, sharp of tooth and claw and as cunning as you or I.
He still remembers the first time he went out into the frozen forest, he was looking for the lake, enjoying the peace. His boots bound and furs strapped. Hatchet on each hip and sword in hand he strides off into the the darkness. It was a clear, silent night, the thick compact snow barely making a sound under the sole of his worn boot. A slight, crisp wind picked up, rubbing the last of the bare leaves over scratching bark, whispering, barely audible like it didn’t want to reveal its secrets. The expansive lake spread before him as a painting, thick, black and as perfect as a mirror. Stars reflecting off the polished ice, the frozen tips of the mountains loomed in the distance, touching the frozen heavens and their sheer, vastly carved masses, forged eons ago by glaciers cutting down their backs, necks and faces.
With each step a little puff of soft snow whipped up And danced flakes back to the breaking heavens above. With the snow settling down And the clouds breaking apart, the moon finds an opening and spills silver light onto the lands when the winter is kind enough to allow small graces. The sparse light illuminates the world a little better to human eyes, it doesn’t do much for his eyes though, already suited to the long years of winter.
Daemons eyes reflected what little light there was and emitted a snarl. His ears prick and nose twitches as the faint odour of rotten flesh hits his nostrils. Reaching down to his left hatchet with his right hand, Daemon spins on his heel with his arm whipping around like a triggered trap, he plants hatchet into skull, sword through soft tissue and decaying matter littered with maggots. Leaving the once-animated corpse to finally be reclaimed by the earth and laid to rest.
To be continued
Posted From somewhere amongst the tangled interwebs.