Permafrost Hollows She's nobody's fool

pulling this into march, whenever suits ya <3

ossuaries beneath the glacier - les catacombes de feu au crépuscule - invoked a chill that reached in deeper than skin. one could mistake the fine ice mist, the occasional rise of cold wind, for the passing of a haunting soul - but the noble and educated knew not to fear little devils of winter. in the end, the Sun melts away all wicked.

so it was she'd entered the catacombs with no fear, the raton laveur's winter coat filling out her mouth, and the blood only beginning to drip in the dark parts of the tunnels, leaving fat, warm dots.

deep in, where light was a toy played with by mischievous ice, she'd seated herself, and placed the raton between her silver utensils - five brilliant, polished knives.

she sliced under the dense underfur, and enjoyed tasteful bites of something recently living - l'aperitif suited for the tastes of a queen.