Zavahier gravitated towards the portable radiator somebody had set up in the Dorn Base cantina, and he ordered a low-ranking officer to give up his seat with a sharply snapped, “Move!”
The man scurried away, shooting Zavahier a resentful look. But Zavahier didn’t care. He wasn’t simply being selfish. He wasn’t just slightly cold after being outside for an hour or two.
Everything had a cost.
And the price Zavahier paid for all the things he had done to himself in the pursuit of power was a vulnerability to low temperatures. He was always cold. Thicker robes took the edge off, but the chill was deep in his bones. It never went away. It was even worse on Hoth. An ice world was no place for someone with so little body heat of their own.
So he huddled as close to the radiator as he could. He would have hugged the thing if it weren’t for wanting to maintain at least a shred of dignity.
This was nice.
It was a shame he couldn’t stay here. There was far too much work to be done. But he could enjoy the heat for a little while. He had to seize these moments of pleasure wherever he could find them.
The pint-sized prompt for the 3rd December was “warm”.