Greatwater Lake the undertaker's thirst for revenge is unquenchable

West shared the information Kitsch needed so Kitsch pranced away, her movements fueled with the urgency of West’s expectations. The small girl moved closer to the buffalo as it snuffed around in the snow; the beast was unperturbed by her nearness and continued to razor away at the soft spring shoots that poked through the ice. Kitsch lifted her lip towards the lumbering creatures in mock fierceness as she passed by; as the young girl was convinced she blended in quick well with her blanched milieu quite well and looked nothing like more than several bouncing inky dots in the last of the winter’s snows. The buffalo probably didn’t even notice her presence in the slightest.

Kitsch’s trajectory jutted towards the grand lake adjacent to them — it was a far walk and Kitsch soon found herself quite bored with the task, so she entertained herself by repeating a mantra of “Small, white flowers, near water. Tall, seed pod, likes fields” under her sweet breath. It would do no good if she forgot her instructions so soon after being told, now would it? Eventually Kitsch made it to the water’s edge and she stopped to survey her surroundings. Kitsch’s lively aquamarine gaze bounced from rock to grass to water but could not locate the small white flowers. She walked along the waterline, unsure exactly what she was looking for but looking intently all the same. Tthe youthful girl maintained a healthy love of flowers so she kept at her task for some time, eventually coming across a small vine with buttery yellow flowers. She decided these were good enough and plucked them gingerly with her lips. Carrying the blooms in her mouth, Kitsch made to leave the lake -- Kitsch had made the decision long ago not to even bother trying to find and extract the inner bark from a willow tree, though the was one sweeping against the lake’s northern bank. Certain that the bark would not be missed, the girl turned on her ink-dipped heel and headed towards a small field that was barren of trees and thick underbrush.

But there was less here to see than there was at the water’s edge. The winter had been a long and hard season, leaving most plants dead and dying in its wake. The snow was no longer soft and new, but compact and icy from a constant cycle of thaw and freeze, thaw and freeze, thaw and freeze. Kitsch lowered her charcoal nose to the ground but the permafrost had stifled any and all scents, so Kitsch deigned to brush aside the snow with her paws to glimpse at what lay underneat. Most of what she found was nothing more than dead and brown grasses, but eventually she came across the most interesting of flowers. It did not have petals, but the stem was long and it was tipped with a bulbous head [wow nsfw]. This particular plant’s stem was battered and beaten by frostbite so it played against the ground; but it’s leaves and seed pod remained in tact. There were several other similar stems laying in the proximity, so Kitsch pulled three from the ground and clamored back to where West lay.

“Is this what you wanted?” she inquired, despositing the buttered flowers and long stems in front of the stranger’s face.