Wapun Meadow waiting in my room, and i lock the door

the vole was short work for the dove, who much like astara, was lean from summer strife. the shrew ibis only tentatively approached; astara’s eyes danced and a ghost of a smile lingered. 

she readied herself to pounce, this time not for neck but flank — all it would take would be ibis’s subverted attention, and once more astara would dole out pain without scrutiny; once more that laughter would ring the snowdecked hills —

only, a new figure came quickly, his tread heard well before he was seen. astara watched reproachfully, her tail held stiffly behind her. she had enough sense to run if the interloper proved aggressive, but she wished to see this play out before her — for she had recognized a semblance of recognition in her plaything’s voice that did not bode well of future astara-games.