The Ice Planet

My nose is very, very red. We have been trekking across the frozen wasteland for hours, since the plane dropped us off on a hill that is still in view. The wind is stifling our progress. I would rather fly, so as to see where we are going, but the gale would blow me away in a second. We- Amanda, Laila, Becca, and I- are delivering an unmarked letter to a man who lives in the wilderness. It is a strange long envelope, marked with a grey wax seal which, so far, I have resisted tearing open and reading on the persuasion of my ignoble and insatiable curiosity...
We round another hill, and to my surprise, an abandoned carcass of a ship lurks in the valley...
As we descend, mists rise out of the snow, enveloping us, and before we can call out, they blow upwards into a thick spiraling cloud, blotting out the sun. We step further tentatively, holding hands in the darkness, when shouts emerge, coupled with the acrid stench of gunfire and blood, and we re-emerge upon the deck of a ship at war...
A young Jack Faber stares at the bloodthirsty pirate in front of her, a pistol heavy in her small hand. A swordsman fighting in the ratlines yells to her, "Kill him! For God's sake, KILL HIM!" And as the man in front of her raises his own sword, she fires, and he drops the chest of valuables and collapses to the deck.
The image fades, a memory of the ship's glorious past...
It is a defense system for the local inhabitants, a sort of wolf-bear-human hybrid called Wolberan, whose particular physiology and temperament are suited for the harsh climate. They see how visitors react to the spectacle, and if they pull weapons on the phantoms, then the Wolberan know to be wary of the newcomers. Thankfully, we had none with  us.
They come bounding out to greet us, their fierce tusks turned upward in joyful smiles, and lead us into the center of the city beyond its magically defended outer walls. The one to whom we wish to deliver the letter is a "Sir Julian Wolfsbane," a cyborg hiding out in the Ice Country under a pseudonym, evading the notice of assassins and tax collectors of almost every planet he has lived on before. Thankfully, the Wolf-men have no taxes, nor need for them, for they thrive solely on sunlight and ice-magic.
He offers us home-made yogurt in exchange for our troubles, and questions us thoroughly to make sure we were not followed. Then, without further waiting, he tears open the envelope with his teeth, completely ignoring the seal, and unfolds a very long letter, his eyes darting down the page.
"Yes, yes, very good..." he mutters, chewing absentmindedly on a long strand of his false beard.
I wonder what is in the correspondence, and am thinking about asking, when he gasps, and cries, "No! It cannot be!" and looks up, behind us, at a picture on the wall.
"Sir?" I probe. "Did something in your letter disturb you?"
"Oh, I'm sorry to burst out like that, I was merely remembering...this place does that to you...sometimes I feel as if I have lived a thousand years, rather than fifty, looking back at it all, and then looking at where I am now...it is an even greater shock, now that I have just received news, that I can finally go home. If it is not too good to be true..."
On the wall is a picture of a small cottage in the middle of a large field of giant wheat-like plants. In front of the house are a man, a woman, and a very fluffy dog with a bird on his head. The man is smiling a rakish smile, his metal arm around the woman's flesh-built shoulders. The dog and bird are looking at each other in a moment of pure camera magic.