Silvertip Mountain Headed towards a fucked up holiday

Forgive me for the delay!

She was a sad sight, the girl who trembled beneath her kiss, and Kitsch was reminded of herself just a scant month or so ago. Shivering, starving and wishing for a kind soul — hell, any soul — to whisk her away from her suffering. Kitsch knew nothing of this girls plight but empathized with her strongly; felt her heart begin to beat in time with the one who laid before her. Compassion was a feeling quite foreign to the girl and whenever it stirred within her soul, the kitten was quick to yield to it. A quick, caesious glance was tossed to the left, then to the right, and their surrounding indicated that they were indeed alone in their anguish. 

Without another soul around to tell her what to do or how to help, Kitsch curled herself around the woebegone and drew her into her bantam embrace — Kitsch always benefitted from a physical type of succor, so why wouldn’t this girl? If Prialux was alone, wouldn’t this action heal all of her hurts? Kitsch prayed it would [but doubted it, since she deeply understood the uncompromising nature of melancholy] and murmured softly “who’s gone?”