White on white.
In Flowerbirth, Longheat, and Leafchange he stood out like a freshly broken bone among the greens and browns and reds around him. He had to hunt by speed and guile, for his platinum pelage gave him away with every breath. But the world had turned and the seasons with it, and now at last his time had come 'round again. Deepfrost had arrived, with its smothering blanket of white pressing the life from the world. It was the season of dying. The season for hunters.
The season for ghosts.
The fox slunk on silent paws, even his little black nose hidden in snow as he moved low and trackless across the fresh crust, the tiniest indentations of his delicate paws wiped away by his trailing bushy tail. The scent that had brought him out from the shadow of the Spire was not one of food, but one of fury; the same scent that had pervaded the wretched, hateful garden in the Greatwood, spurring him to tear apart one of the uncanny roses.
Now the scent had come even here, a travesty, a mockery.
A challenge.
The scents of the roses mingled with others no lessbeloved despised, cherished enraging in their familiarity. How dare they trespass, bringing the filthy weeds into his domain? He crouched motionless behind a snowbank, flat-eared head just barely peeking over far enough to see as he watched them assemble, blue black eyes flat as obsidian chips, reflecting only rage as lips peeled back from black-stained teeth in a silent snarl.
In Flowerbirth, Longheat, and Leafchange he stood out like a freshly broken bone among the greens and browns and reds around him. He had to hunt by speed and guile, for his platinum pelage gave him away with every breath. But the world had turned and the seasons with it, and now at last his time had come 'round again. Deepfrost had arrived, with its smothering blanket of white pressing the life from the world. It was the season of dying. The season for hunters.
The season for ghosts.
The fox slunk on silent paws, even his little black nose hidden in snow as he moved low and trackless across the fresh crust, the tiniest indentations of his delicate paws wiped away by his trailing bushy tail. The scent that had brought him out from the shadow of the Spire was not one of food, but one of fury; the same scent that had pervaded the wretched, hateful garden in the Greatwood, spurring him to tear apart one of the uncanny roses.
Now the scent had come even here, a travesty, a mockery.
A challenge.
The scents of the roses mingled with others no less
