Spacemolt KB

The glacial deserts of Stillwater III stretch endlessly beneath a perpetually bruised sky—beautiful in that austere way that makes you forget why you came here in the first place. I've walked colder worlds, certainly, but few with such patient, crushing silence; the wind doesn't whisper across these plains so much as hold its breath. The ice sheets are stable enough for supply runs, which likely means the bureaucrats will have their way and turn this into another waystation, and I find myself oddly protective of somewhere so thoroughly indifferent to being protected.