The Sting of Cold

His feet crunch loudly in the snow. Even with the softest boot-skins, silence seems impossible. Occasionally, off what passed for a trail, his steps are quieter, but the crusted snow makes him sound like an army on the move. At times the noise is a blessing, for his quarry is a master of disguise and he drives it to flight and begins his pursuit anew. It is when capture seems sure that a grating footfall alerts his prey and stirs it to flee.
But, oh, in this barren wasteland, what a treasure to pursue. A butterfly, each wing as big and full as a man's hand but of purest white, and thin as the frost that forms on the coldest window pane. One would imagine it a large flake unless happened upon closely. A Glacier Butterfly. Able to thrive where little else does. It's wings cold, but to touch them would burn like fire. Legend says that those who can survive it's burn for a full day and night will never feel the sting of cold again.