The air shimmered faintly around me, frost twisting and curling at my feet as I sat cross-legged near the edge of the tribe's camp. The fire crackled a short distance away, its warmth barely a flicker before the chill consumed it. The tribesmen kept their distance, though not as far as before. Their gazes darted toward me – some wary, others curious. I stayed still. Unmoving. I'd learned that stillness made them less uneasy.
The elder came first. She always did. Her steps were measured, the soft jingle of the bone beads on her wrists the only sound besides the fire. She stopped a few paces away. Her eyes, dark and sharp, held mine for a moment. Then she spoke, her hands rising, moving in rhythm with her words.
"Do you understand us?" Her voice was low, steady. I wanted to answer with words, but a single whisper would've shattered her entire body and killed everyone around her.
I nodded. Once. Slow. Deliberate. Her lips pressed together, her expression thoughtful. She turned and gestured to the others nearby. They crept closer – hesitant, unsure. Some crouched, others leaned against the bone-and-hide tents, their hands twitching toward weapons. Just in case.
"He listens," the elder said, glancing back at me, but also speaking loud enough for everyone else to hear. Her voice carried authority, but there was a flicker of something softer in her tone. Curiosity, maybe.
A younger man stepped forward. He was lean, his braided hair tightly coiled against his scalp. Beads and carved bone fragments were woven into the braids, clicking faintly as he moved. His eyes flicked toward the elder, who nodded, and then to me. His steps slowed as he approached. He stopped just beyond arm's reach, crouched low, and lifted his hands.
"This," the elder said, gesturing toward him, "is Yatuk. He will teach you."
Yatuk's hands moved with practiced ease, fingers tracing patterns in the air. No words, just gestures. Simple. Clear. I watched intently, studying every movement. His gestures slowed, repeating.
"This is how we speak without words."
I raised my hand, mimicking him. My fingers moved stiffly at first, the motions awkward. I stopped, adjusted, and tried again. Yatuk's brows lifted slightly. A small nod. He signed again, slower this time, his hands moving like flowing water. I copied him. Closer this time. His lips quirked into a tight grin – brief but genuine. He turned to the others and nodded.
Murmurs rippled through the onlookers. Some of the tension in their shoulders eased, though a few still glanced warily at the frost swirling at the edges of my form. I stayed still, watching as Yatuk stood and motioned for me to follow him to the fire. I did, keeping my movements deliberate, the frost curling back into me. The circle of warmth there was fragile enough as it was.
The days blurred together as Yatuk and others taught me. They took turns, some younger, others older, all patient. Their hands moved with precision, teaching me the basics first. Names. Greetings. Simple phrases. At first, my attempts made them smirk or chuckle quietly, but I watched their motions closely, and soon, my hands matched theirs.
By the end of the second week, I could sign small sentences. I pointed to Yatuk one evening by the fire and mirrored his earlier gesture.
"Yatuk." Then I pointed to myself. "Icewalker."
The response was immediate. A ripple of laughter moved through the group. Nervous at first. Then lighter, warmer. Yatuk clapped his hands once, his grin wider this time. He gestured for me to continue, his fingers flicking in encouragement. I did, repeating the motions smoothly. The laughter grew. Some of the children nearby mimicked me, their small hands fumbling the gestures.
The elder watched from across the fire, her gaze steady but softer than before. She leaned forward after the laughter faded, her bracelets clinking faintly as she moved. Her hands rose, slower now, deliberate. Her voice, low and rhythmic, wove between her gestures. Tonight, like every other night, it was the her duty to tell a story – a way for them to preserve knowledge, I figured, through oral tradition.
"Long ago, our people ruled the stars." She spread her arms wide, fingers tracing arcs that seemed to catch the firelight. "We built ships of fire and light. We touched other worlds. We made them ours."
Her words painted images in my mind. Ships the size of cities, gleaming against endless black skies. Towers that pierced clouds. Her hands twisted, fingers curling into fists.
"But we grew greedy," she continued. "We took too much, tampered with that which we did not understand or know. The stars turned against us."
The younger tribesmen leaned forward, their faces lit with the orange glow of the fire. Yatuk sat beside me, his hands translating the finer gestures for clarity. The elder's voice softened, her hands flattening as she gestured to the ground beneath her.
"Storms came. Fire fell. The skies burned, and our ships died. We were cast down, scattered."
She gestured toward the vast plains beyond the camp. Her hands swept low, almost mournful. "Now we wander. The stars no longer welcome us."
The others nodded, their faces solemn. A few glanced upward. The stars were faint now, barely visible beyond the rising smoke of the fire. Their gazes held something heavy – more than awe. A longing that was older than any of them. The elder continued her story, "Once, our brothers, the Iron Men, fought and lived alongside us, but they turned against our ancestors and sought to destroy them."
She spoke of a great war – a war where men made use of weapons that spat out fire. The more I listened, the more it sounded like something that came out of a Space Opera – with space ships and laser beams and all sorts of sci-fi tech that... to be fair, could help to explain how or why humans came to be on this planet.
I signed back slowly, my hands deliberate. "You came from the stars."
The elder's lips twitched, almost a smile. "Yes. But that was long ago. Now, we survive."
She gestured again, this time toward the severed green-skinned heads mounted on spikes at the edge of camp. The frost that clung to the stakes was a reminder of my presence. She didn't speak further, but her meaning was clear. Survival was not kind to them. And it never would be. But, with me around, at least, they'd never have to worry about the Green-Skinned creatures ever again – Orks, they called them, barbaric brutes who lived only to fight and kill.
Weeks passed, then months. Yatuk stayed by my side, teaching me tirelessly. His patience never wavered, though his frustration flickered in the tightness of his jaw when I fumbled more complex phrases. The children grew bolder, their small hands reaching out to mimic my gestures, their giggles bright and quick when I nodded in approval. The elder shared more stories, her voice like the crackle of the fire, her gestures slower now to let me follow. Their fear of me dulled, though it never entirely left. They no longer flinched at the sight of the frost curling behind my steps, but they still kept their hands to themselves, their distance respectful.
One night, Yatuk came to me alone. The others had long since gone to their tents. I liked to stay away from the main tents – not because I was shunned or anything like that, but because I was still learning to fully control my frost and cold. And that meant being away from people who might freeze to death if I did something wrong. Yatuk crouched by the fire, his silhouette outlined against the glow. His hands moved carefully, his gaze steady on mine.
"Why do you not speak?"
I hesitated. My hands rose, deliberate. "If I speak, you will die."
Yatuk froze. His hands lowered slightly, his brows furrowing. He glanced at the fire, then back to me. "Your voice kills?"
I nodded. He tilted his head, thoughtful. His hands moved again, slower. "That is why you learn this?"
"Yes."
He didn't press further. Instead, he shifted closer to the fire and sat quietly, his eyes on the embers as they burned low. I stayed beside him, silent as the frost curled faintly at the edge of the firelight.
The tribe had given me a name. Icewalker. And for the first time, I felt it was earned.
Weeks melted into months, as seamless as the frost I left behind. I traveled with Yatuk's tribe, my shadow stretching long beside theirs across the plains, the forests, and the rivers. They called themselves The People, no other name, no other identity but what they shared among themselves. It was simple. Fitting.
At first, their wariness lingered, glances darting my way when they thought I wasn't looking. But that changed as I helped, as my presence became not just a curiosity but a boon. I required no food, no drink, no sleep. When they hunted, I preserved their kills by freezing the meat solid. The first time, they stared at the frost-covered carcass, brows knitted, eyes wide. Then, one of the older hunters slapped Yatuk on the back, grinning wide, before turning to the others and shouting something in their tongue. Cheers rippled through the camp that night.
Crossing rivers became safer too. Where they once risked the strong currents with makeshift rafts, I froze the water underfoot. Yatuk tested it first, his spear tapping the ice as he crouched low. It held firm. He rose and signaled to the others, motioning for them to follow. Their steps were cautious at first, the crunch of frost under their feet loud in the stillness. But by the time the last tribesman crossed, they looked back at me with something new in their eyes – trust.
The Orks, as they called the green-skinned brutes, stopped coming. I could sense them sometimes, lurking at the edges of the tribe's encampments. But the moment they saw the creeping mist of my frost or the glint of my pale figure in the distance, they retreated. Their absence brought quiet. At night, the firelight no longer danced across wary, watchful faces. Instead, it illuminated laughter and stories. I became a part of those stories, woven into their legends as the Icewalker, the frost that shielded The People.
Months passed. The rhythm of the tribe became my rhythm. I learned the cycles of their lives – the hunt, the migration, the way they packed and moved their tents like a single, fluid motion. Children ran circles around me, giggling as they mimicked my signs or dared one another to touch the frost near my feet before pulling back with wide eyes. The elders taught me their songs, their hands tracing the beats in the air, their voices rising and falling like the wind across the plains.
Then months became years. Two, by my count. I knew because I marked each sunrise, each sunset. This planet's days were longer – twenty-six hours instead of twenty-four – but the pattern became familiar. The People accepted me fully by then. They no longer hesitated when I approached, and their laughter no longer quieted when I joined their circle. I wasn't just the Icewalker who protected them. I was part of them, a member of The People in every way but flesh.
But all things, even peace, end.
It began when the elders decided to move south. They had spoken of it for months—of fertile lands beyond the mountains, of herds larger than any they had seen before. The migration took us through the thickest forests I'd ever seen, the canopy so dense that sunlight struggled to reach the ground. My frost clung to the air, leaving white trails against the dark bark of the trees as we passed. The journey was slow, but The People were patient. They always were.
The trouble began when we emerged from the forest's edge into a wide valley. Yatuk was the first to see it. He stood atop a ridge, his hand shading his eyes as he scanned the horizon. I followed his gaze. Below, nestled against the banks of a wide, winding river, was a settlement.
No, not a settlement. A city. Not an advanced one, but certainly more advanced than The People.
Stone walls stretched high, surrounding rows upon rows of buildings that glinted faintly in the sun. Smoke rose from countless fires, and tiny figures moved along the walls. It was far larger than anything I'd seen on this world.
The People murmured among themselves, their gestures quick, sharp. Some pointed toward the city, their faces drawn tight with uncertainty. Others looked back toward the forest, as if reconsidering the journey entirely.
Yatuk turned to me, his brows furrowed. He signed slowly. "This is not a place for us."
The elder approached, her steps deliberate. She stood beside Yatuk, her hands rising as she spoke to him and the others. Her movements were confident, commanding. She pointed to the city, then to the river, then traced a path through the valley with her fingers. I understood. She believed we could skirt the edges, avoid contact, and continue south.
The others hesitated, their murmurs growing louder. Yatuk's jaw tightened. He signed again, faster this time. "They will see us. They will stop us."
The elder waved a hand, dismissing his concern. But her shoulders were tense, her lips pressed thin. She turned to me, her eyes searching. Her fingers moved. "If they attack, you will protect us?"
I nodded once, slow and deliberate. Her lips parted slightly, exhaling a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She turned back to the others, motioning for them to prepare. The decision was made. We would move forward.
