Silver Moraine if they call holidays an option, it's pretentious

storming.

bedded down in an iced-over thicket, caiaphas' eyes fluttered in restless sleep. overhead a sky more black than blue rippled, a cold and distant sun moving in slow arcs over a fug of dour-faced clouds. she slept, she slept, and she slept some more -- while the wind howled to her back and the temperature steadily crept downwards.

her body, resting. her mind, roaming. roaming over the betrayal of her daughter, who had cast her to the wolves. ruminating over the ruin of her family, her empire at last come to dissolution.

within her something had taken root in her body - spread from stem to stem, deprecating. caiaphas slept on, aware of her body's torments, and yet powerless to stop them.