Snow that is chest-deep on a Na'vi is no small trick. Jake Sully had already been hurrying to pass through, his cold weather gear guarding his tropical-adapted body against the worst of the chill, when suddenly the ground beneath the snow seems to drop away, plunging him into seven feet of snow.

He blinks his big yellow eyes, baring sharp fangs in a grimace, flailing a little as he's enveloped by cold. Sure, the thick gear he's wearing keeps the worst of it at bay, but there's snow pushing up against any exposed inch of skin, threatening to spill down the collar of his coat or push itself up his sleeves. He can already feel it seeping into the tops of his boots.

"Great," he mutters, swiping at the snowdrift with hands that are not remotely adapted for this. Pointed ears catch the sound of some dumb-ass riddle, and he twists around until the speaker comes into view. Walking on top of the snow? That's bullshit. "That's kinda cheating, isn't it?"