Permafrost Hollows estic de negocis

Majorca seldom left her territory upon the permafrost hollows and was never overjoyed when she had to do so. The apparition only descended the heights only when necessary; when she needed something that her own, expansive abode could not provide — other cats. She had returned, fairly certain she had conceived — but there was no way to truly know these things — so Majorca did not waste thoughts on pondering the possibilities. Either she was or she wasn’t, and nothing she could do now would change that.  

Instead, she returned from her jaunt to the coast and reestablished herself upon the edge of the mountain that somehow retained its chill despite the summer hear that plagued the rest of these lands. It was a familiar land, one that she had roosted upon for many years, and spent no time in combing the various peaks, recesses and valleys for interlopers and vagrants in various forms. With no one here to command her reign, Majorca suspected mayhem might break out — and sometimes it did — but where her lands could have been overrun in her absence, she found it to be free of any suspects.

Good.

So, the gilded ghost settled herself into the upper limbs of a inkstand birch, cradled her fluid frame against the forking of a branch, and languidly watched the earth below as her tail swung and twitched midair.