There is nothing more distasteful than sand.
The golden grains find their way into every nook and cranny, Piers' clothes and hair – no matter how carefully he moves. Although it isn't as if he rushes around the area and buries his head into the dunes, the man always appears that way after a desert mission. Boots are tugged off and enough sand pours out to fill an entire pit. It jams weapons, stings eyes and affects taste.
Yet, somehow, the sniper has discovered something just as bad, if not worse.
Snow.
A rather unbelievable statement at first glance. It is powdery and soft to tread, with the flavour of cool water when landing on the tongue. Nivans has no need to empty footwear or cringe because his hair matts and turns from brown to bronze. The white causes him to revert to a six year old and play – throwing balls, making figures or appreciating its pristine magic.
Those are the good aspects.
What the soldier has no love for is the temperature twenty below during a patrol or that a sweet songbird lands on a branch and a chunk of snow directly above him is disturbed, completely bypassing the blue scarf and leisurely sliding down the back of his neck. He cannot move from his position, a hazel eye peering through the sniper scope, desperate to maintain control of breathing and struggling with shivers.
At least sand is warm and dry. A scarf keeps most out of the mouth. Snow merely bleeds into the fabric and dampens it.
That is the day Piers amends his thought. There are few things more distasteful – and inconvenient – than sand.
