The air stabbed at his lungs with tiny knives. His breaths came in short gasps. The snow crunched and sank below his foot. He didn’t care anymore if the ground gave way and cast him into a crevasse, as then he would be free from the blizzard that was threatening to bury him. Snow battered him, violent and sadistic, clinging and covering its brethren to stop him. The first flakes were long melted into his clothes, turning them sopping wet. A wet that was now well into its way to refreezing, cracking with each movement.
A gust of wind from behind knocked him to his knees, bringing more snow, and blinding him. He couldn’t see much past his extended hand, and didn’t have the energy to stand. He crawled on all fours, grasping through the snow for a hint of purchase to drag him along. His hands were long numb.
Suddenly, in the snow, his fingers closed around what felt like a rock. Knowing how scarce something that wasn’t snow and ice was, he pulled at it with both arms. Bursting out was a small, but thick root. It looked like a baby’s hands with too many fingers. The root was a Dob, a starchy tuber that grew across the frozen wastes. It had a small brown shoot that extended only a little above the ground, but down below it grew freely. Fully mature dobs could be peeled and eaten raw or boiled until the skin sloughs off. However, the younger the dob is, the thicker its skin, making it impossible to get to the nutritious meat.
His hunger overruled any higher brain process, and he rose the dob to his lip and gnashed at the skin. He gnarled and bit until his gums bled. He closed his eyes, trying and hoping to get inside the root. And when the sun rose, it shown on his frozen corpse, the dob still clutched in his hands.
The Canonical Earth 