Porcupine Ridge Crafted, holy, rolling thunder

I have ears. I would listen. She shrugs, now focused on rolling a potato bug back and forth between her paws. Tormenting any beast that had a soul. Here she had a 2 in 1.I love complaining. You should do it more, it's good for the soul. I would know cause I'm a doctor.

Only the briefest of pauses, as was commonplace with the chatterbox. Speaking of, it's cold. Don't like that. Some spots are sheltered by the wind, but most get this awful breeze- like- awful. Freezing. And and and, I need more patches of grass. I wanna start a garden, save me havin' to walk up and down the mountain every time I need to top things up, problem with that is—

She scraped her nails against the stone for dramatic effect. Abandoning the roly poly to roly away. Rock.

An exasperated huff. You cannot plant things in rock. I'll have to find a spot with grass, probably further in. It's inconvenient.

Her life was the hardest anybody's life had ever been.