A Wrong Snow

As a member of the Vlka Fenryka, Shondrag knew he shouldn’t feel this way but he did: he hated the snow. Not the snow of home, Fenris. He loved the snow of Fenris, the cool tang in his flared nostrils as he scented a hunt.

It was this world. Wazmuun. The snow here just wasn’t right. Somehow too cold. The flakes, too large. Falling slightly too slow. As if water froze at a different temperature here. Like the physical laws in the universe played differently on Wazmuun’s bastard surface.

Ping.

It was his auspex again. His prey, was right in front of him. Somewhere. But always right in front of him.

Shondrag took another step, his boot sinking into the snow halfway up his greave.

Ping.

Still in front. He took another step. How many had it been?

Ping.

It seemed to get harder to pull his boots out of the snow. He’d pursued his query for what seemed like days.

Ping.

Harder still. He was sure of it. He was not wary. Adeptus Astartes did not tire. Not like this. From just walking.

Ping. Step. Ping. Step. Step. Ping.

He’d catch up to his query.

Ping. Half-step.

As soon as he rested…just a little while.

He watched as a snowflake, as large as his transhuman hand, drifted and fell landing on his nose.

As the gloomy wind of Wazmuun howled, his eyes slowly closed…