I was but a feeble old man at the time, just scraping through unscathed. But to an extent, I was in a gang of guerrillas that fought only for rights. Sometimes, I think we would exceed expectations for suicide.
Ours was not a simple life; times progressed into simple life-or-death but I was happily playing darts. Gripping ice pillars kept our hideout stable, the lack of windows (what's a window?) kept it frosty. An unbearable condition was mine. The humble abode just a beacon to Drake and Willurby. My bushy eyebrows signalled my concentration, snap! They would clasp down as I locked on and suddenly.
"What ya' doin' old timer?" Drake joked as he arrived from a daredevil's retreat.
"Starving my socks off," I foolishly complained. Sniffing the air, I questioned.
"Where's Willurby?" Drake quaked and hesitated.
"He... let's just say, he sacrificed his safety for some stolen... I, I, mean jersey potatoes." He punched his fist with his prize, a potato.
Shortly after, a malicious, zombie-like figure slouched across the icy plains. A whipping blizzard swept up shards of the hazardous materials. Drake peered out the ominous crack in the wall and pricked up his ears, the groans of a zombie. His vision was impaired due to the eerie frost nights.
"Zombies!" Drake shrieked like a girl. Moments later, the figure battered down the shambled door. Revealing himself, Drake lashed out with his polished blade.
"Being an ice dweller, I was trained to kill and what-not," he bragged when he noted the figure was none other than a depressed and shredded Willurby.
I guess you can see why we're all fired up for the resistance. It's because of the pain we heaved upon the Cartisacs- the race of magical terrorists- it goes like this... they steal from us in our tranquil village; we steal from them and return it back safely. My name on the other hand is Monty. I'm the brains of the gang. Willurby is the brawn and a big unit too. Drake is the moustachioed hero with his snow-shined sword. But would these traits deserve us the power to stop Frosty Jaws?
A new day dawned over the plains and the ice glimmered with its new-found reflections. During the safe (enough) day, Monty acted as a doctor, psychiatrist, physicist and ice cream man. Patients lined up as diseases flowing across the streamlined ice were common.
"Doctor, whenever I do this, it hurts," the gruff-voiced man lifted his arm and whined.
"Then don't do that then, next!" Monty swiftly spoke. As you could quickly note, Monty wasn't feeling himself because his wisdom surpassed his years and he knew...
"Monty, what's wrong?" Drake and Willurby queried once they entered their fake check-up. The hut was blankly silent. Willurby crouched down and sensed through the bitter ice.
"They'll be coming," he whispered diabolically. Worriedly, Drake replied.
"Who's coming?" Monty's answer was fair and swift.
"The Cartisacs. Tremors have popped up all over the town, could only mean ice-shifting shifty shifters."
"How could I forget ‘em?" Drake bent down to comfort Willurby at his grovelling level. "I'm not one for sappy talk but by the red-feathered cap on my forehead and my buttoned scarlet robe..."
"Hold up!" interrupted Willurby. "Didn't you say that coat was crimson?"
"Well, it was. You can't trust dry cleaners these days," he continued. "The point is, I will do anything I can to secure the welfare of this village."
Serene settings went on as normal until a large ice-shifting shifty shifter screeched out by a hut. An ice-shifting shifty shifter being the feared grinding machines that the Cartisacs named transport. Clambering down from its dizzying heights, a short, ugly goblin figure snarled as he caught sight and inspected the crowd. He shoved a metal pole into the ground following a flag perched up on it.
"This village is under new management and so are the Cartisacs," he bellowed. "I am General Fong and what we Cartisacs demand from you peasants today is only ten tons of the finest steel girders."
The late gang of three joined the crowd in the square from their cosy (freezing) hut. Although he could only see them from the corner of his blood-shot eyes, Drake's face seemed familiar to Fong. He craned his ice-kissed neck and grinned madly.
"You!" Fong pointed directly at Drake. "Surely you, Drake know a thing or two about stealing some steel girders. I mean, you steal enough from us!" The plains felt as they were surrounding the confused Drake. Then, Drake smiled as did Fong and they both laughed (or cackled) simultaneously as if they were best friends.
Would be Fong to break the laughter and cut to the death-defying chase.
"Basically, get us ten tons, just ten tons of steel girders or pay the ultimate price," Fong shrank back into his tank and as if to prove his point, fired an accurate missile at the fountain. It now laid there defiled. "Have fun with the job!" and with that, he fled the village.
Later that day, the gang returned to the hut whilst Monty analysed the situation.
"So our main focus is the welfare of the village, agreed?" Monty stressed.
"Agreed!" the others chanted unenthusiastically.
"But we could be helping the Cartisacs with an evil plot," Monty realised.
"Agreed," the programmed tired pair chanted again. Drake however had already made up his mind. Even though the fate of the village rested on his shoulders, he was trained in the arts of theft. He was like a Robin Hood to the cryo atmosphere... that was it! The cryo atmosphere. This new Earth spanned way further than the cryo atmosphere. Hearing tall tales of warriors of the blistering pyro atmosphere who struggled in the iron and steel trade that they managed to fish out from ore, this brave adventurer was ready to go further than this godforsaken wasteland. Fortunately, his plan was well thought out and ideal but he failed in figuring out one, the cost and two, the very cause this metal was going to. He didn't care, his crew were willing and his village was under threat. To the pyro atmosphere!