Sun Mote Copse whispering her wishes to the threads

he tasted his own blood in the back of his throat. when he sat down again, he had to rub his eyes and feel the tension in his jaw, and then turned to spit out a piece of tooth into the snow.

grigoriy is good at legs, but not first time in morning. he grumbles.

his gaze rests on the woman, who views him like babushka choosing the least suspect cabbage at market.

pretty lady! what is the name?
grigoriy does a smile. it is... not so great.