The Tangle Blame it all on yourself

It was a lean winter for all lone, young things.

The weasel was gone before she knew it, and her tongue smeared more blood over her muzzle as she flicked out out to lick the last remnants of meat from her whiskers. It was stark on her white coat, a splash of color on an otherwise monochrome form.

It was then that she finally returned to the present, and caught the barest hint of a scent. It was enough for the gangly girl to go on her guard, hackles raising in silvery relief to the rest of her.

Ποιος είναι εκεί? Her voice cracked from between her jaws, posture curved as her eyes sought the dark, curled snarls of the brambles around her.