And, girded by their solar parkas and pitons, they marched ever southward, into the austral wastes of Zaieed, where the polar fields sloped cracked and blue under the Great Cyan Rings, and monstrous talons of ice spired crazily into the black, magnetic sky. And it was woefully cold; and at times they heard a cracking, clicking noise, high and far on the wind, which they knew was not the radioactive muttering of the sky-demons.
So, fearfully remembering the terrible crystalline claws of the Lesser Zaieedan Eviscerator, and recalling the aborigines' tales of its mythical larger cousin, which was reputed to haunt the polar wastes, the company huddled together for more than mere warmth.
