Blackfeather Woods pink wine

Kitsch didn’t know how long she laid in autumnal sunlight, as weak and pallid as it was in the lateness of the year, but she drifted in and out on consciousness for what seemed to be many moments. Besides in the poppy, it was only in this space [between wakefulness and sleep] that that the kitten could find peace. The reality of her situation haunted her by day, yet night was no better because he beguiled her dreams — the man of many moons ago; the one who had broken her and made her to realize what she truly was. worthless.

So, yes, the drowsiness of her repose was just fine with her.

Despite her catnap, Kitsch’s ink-pointed ear twitched as a sound registered in her auditory faculties; she immediately knew it to be her name, recognized the base of the voice that greeted her, and lifted her gaze to glimpse Abraxas gliding onto the scene — the colors of the plant vivd and beckoning against the darkness of his pelt. The male was the only one who paid her any mind and Kitsch often found comfort in his presence. She figured that Abraxas must find comfort too — I mean, why else would be bring her such wonderful presents, if not for his fancifulness? It was the only reason that the girl’s naive mind could conjure, so she didn’t really question it at all. 

Kitsch let her attention linger upon the poppy for a moment too long before pushing herself into a languid sitting position; bones and muscles held loose, relaxed. “Hey,” she greeted, certain he had a reason for today’s visit and would enlighten her forthwith. He always had a reason.