Blackfeather Woods dream of my world, i live on my world

astara's spidery ambulations were taxing to perform -- each step she took was exaggerated and lifted, and she squealed unhappily as the cold sensation of snow hit her belly. goosed by the splatter of snow beneath her feet she bolted forward like a sour horse, ears pinned as she streaked past her mother until she was back on solid, non-white ground.

she had decided she didn't really care for snow - it was too cold, and she was a creature of comfort. with a dark expression she sat primly on the bare spot of earth, eyeing her sister with distaste as averna woofed encouragement in her direction. astara's body was poised in such a way it clearly seemed to say no  -- she was not having this cold white bullshit today.