Cold feet pt 1

In the hushed stillness of wintry dusk, the heavy legs of a man forge through the untouched snow, each step a silent struggle against the smothering embrace of winter.

The snowflakes, like a myriad of tiny specters, dance mockingly around his feet, which are clad perhaps in worn leather boots that speak of many a journey through such unforgiving landscapes.

The forest looms around him – an audience of ancient pines and firs, their branches heavy with the weight of snow – watching as this solitary figure enacts his silent hunt. The urgency is palpable in the way his feet sink and rise with deliberate force; there is something or someone he pursues with relentless determination.

As the view expands, the forest begins to recede, its ancient pines and firs fading into a distant tapestry. The man's breath crystallizes in the frigid air, and his heavy legs carry him with unwavering purpose toward the cliff's edge. Its edges, softened by a thick blanket of snow, threatened to spill over into the abyss below—a frothy cascade frozen in time.

At the precipice, where earth met void, the man stepped forth. He was a hunter, eyes ablaze with the fire of pursuit. His breath hung in the frigid air, each exhale a testament to his resolve. The scent of cold death clung to him, a spectral companion on this desolate journey.

And there, cornered against the unforgiving rock, stood the quarry—a creature both ethereal and earthly. Its form resembled a deer, yet its long, furry tail betrayed its otherworldly nature. Fear etched lines upon its face, exhaustion pulling at its limbs. The chase had been relentless, and now it faced its final stand.

And so, on that desolate cliff, the dance of existence played out—a symphony of fear, longing, and inevitability. With unwavering purpose, he withdrew a net from his weathered coat—a relic of countless hunts. The net unfurled, its mesh catching the fading light like a spider's web spun in defiance of fate.

The net soared through the air, a silvery arc against the gray canvas of winter. The creature screamed—a haunting cry that echoed off the cliff walls—but it was futile. The net enveloped it, binding its limbs, ensnaring its hope. The man's eyes held no malice, only the grim acceptance of necessity.

Yet the creature fought—a wild, primal struggle against the inexorable pull of fate. Its long, furry tail lashed, its hooves scrabbled for purchase on the icy ground. But the net held firm, its knots unyielding. The abyss yawned below, waiting to claim them both.

As the hunter and the creature grappled, their struggle reached its zenith. The air crackled with tension, and the very fabric of reality seemed to fray.

Suddenly, the scene shifted.

The man stood still, perched on the edge of what appeared to be another cliff. But this was no ordinary precipice. Gravity itself played tricks here, defying reason. He stood on a wall—a perpendicular surface that defied the laws of nature. The man's legs, strong and resolute, propelled him upward. He leaped, spear raised high.

And then the impossible happened. Gravity, that relentless force, bent to his will. The same cliff that had ensnared the creature and the hunter now yielded to him.

But as he reached the same level as his adversaries, where ground met sky, where gravity pulled "down" the world snapped back to its familiar order. 

He hurled his spear, its mechanical tip extending, and it found its mark. The creature's head, vulnerable and exposed, met its end. Hot blood sprayed across the snow, steaming in the frigid air. The creature convulsed, its eyes wide with shock. 

At that moment, the abyss lost its appetite.

The hunter stepped closer, his breath ragged. "Hey Arne, this should feed us for the next week or so, right?" he muttered, his voice trembling. Fear danced in his eyes, not for the creature he had slain, but for the mouths he had to feed.