Chafing his gloved hands, he gingerly took in another breath, wincing at the metallic invasion into his chest. Then he moved a few steps over to the nearest mound.
“Bubo,” he said, his voice low.
In the uncertain light it was not clear if there was any motion. Perhaps a tiny avalanche, a tremble of white powder. Piranha pushed his hand through the snow surface, prodded the solidity underneath; for a moment in slight anxiety.
A gruff groan.
Piranha stood back. After another moment, the craggy shape of the big pirate heaved up, breaking through the smooth covering as if bursting out of a grave.