Date: May 19th, 2015 9:03 AM
Author: Concupiscible Sanctuary
Need the cold; love the cold. Hones you; sharpens you. Death around every corner: One lost glove, a lost hand; one misplaced hat, an ice-scathed scalp. Every move matters. Reactors struggling against its encroach; grim shouts through the currents of freezing smoke: "more fuel to the uranium fires lads"--our burning courage. And so our ship soldiers on, cutting through its dark tendrils. We are the men of the cold; our souls are made in it; without this death we die.