Stone Circle I got a head full of sharp knives

Prisnálund

Sobbing, still clutching the grey fox pelt, Foxglove nestled herself among the ferns. She was careful not to stain the pelt, either with her tears or the grass, but kept it close to her. It truly was a beautiful thing. Fox hadn't owned very many beautiful things in her life — and all of them, little trinkets and keepsakes she'd collected, had been left behind in that valley.

Through her tears she stared at the pelt, trying to convince herself that it was worth all the trouble she'd surely brought to herself and her sisters.