Blackfeather Woods Blood, gold and tears

Potema had finished her organizing and preparing, and dozed in the infirmary, too tired to crawl the short distance to her den. The witch was a white ball, her nose tucked underneath her tail. The only break in her snow-like pelt (which was growing thick as the weather grew colder) were flecks of plants, leaves, petals, roots. She slept, dreamless in a rare point of her life, her toes and ear twitching as she snored.