Permafrost Hollows salut i força al canut

Rarely did she leave the peaks. She was a flash of gold amongst the arboreal emeralds that blanketed her milieu; no sounds heralded her movement — as was her feline nature.

Dextrous, pliant paws formed to ground and carried her lightly across the earth, as if she did not touch it but merely floated above it — despite such results, she was attempting no true effort to conceal herself. These were her peaks; she had declared domicile upon them years ago and her claim was well-established. The stronghold was shielded — it saw many creatures through its borders, including her lupine brethren that shared the expanse. The eremite had no qualms with such creatures as long as they did not poach her prey. No, it was the other cats she fended! and she did so vehemently, despite such instances being so few and far between.

The thought set her draping, argent pelt aquiver. The cat lived a life obscured amongst the dappled shadows and steep elevations that she was adapted specifically for; to remain anonymous, not seen or heard or discovered — until it was needed. Her scent and presence was thick in the spire’s upper reaches, but she so rarely descended that her summit sometimes went unattended to. The weather was stifling and as she descended, alpine timbers seemed to become thicker and thicker and then wider and wider, forcing her serpentine path to weave indiscriminately through the brush.

The apparition targeted a single birch and, leading with her forehead, ran her body against the tree’s thick bark. The grooves swept through her coat as would a fine-tooth comb, her spine involuntarily flexing at the shimmering sensation, and in this way, she scented her claim on this tree, then that tree, and then another — as if to say this is mine and this is also mine — every so often leaping amongst the low lying branches to tend to her territory above. Couldn’t hurt.