Читать книгу Skyfisher - Dan Dowhal - Страница 10

Article updated Tuesday 4 November 08:51

This is the first thing I’ve written in almost two days. The snow just kept falling and falling, and there’s a good two feet of it on the ground now. I think I must also have come down with the twenty-four-hour flu or something, because yesterday I couldn’t even find the strength to get out of bed to keep the wood stove burning. It’s a good thing the Shius left behind a quality down-filled sleeping bag to keep my aching bones warm, though, because it was cold as hell in here when I woke up this morning.

There’s an interesting phrase—cold as hell. The stereotypical Catholic hell is, of course, full of fire and brimstone, where damned souls burn in eternal agony. I purposely never chose to create a Phasmatian equivalent of hell. I figured that having your soul permanently extinguished at death should be enough of a deterrent for would-be sinners. If I had, though, and in keeping with our theme of the dark entropic menace pervading the universe, my hell would have been cold to your very miserable core.

But I’ve got it nice and toasty warm in here now, and the sun is shining brightly outside (even if that’s because a large high-pressure front from Canada has parked its frigid Arctic air over top of us). I’m going to go and stock up on firewood, and make myself a nice bowl of (canned) stew before settling down to continue this chronicle.