Picnyx

Ah, Brigitte sighed as she stretched out her toes on the warm cobblestones. After many days with her paws buried in snow, this was a real treat. Unlike Skolvigaard, where she had first set foot in Strynhalde, the streets of Iorumund were heated with hot water pumped through a series of underground pipes. In addition to keeping paws toasty, this kept snow from accumulating on the ground, making it unnecessary to plow and shovel after snowstorms. The grand eldertree loomed above the city, its icy blue-black bark sparkling in the sunlight. An occasional gust of wind would jostle its soft white leaves, sending glittering flurries sprinkling down toward the snow-covered rooftops. As she rounded the corner to reach the town square, Brigitte spotted a small crowd of kittoms surrounding a dashing black, red and orange nin with a flame-like spinal ridge and tail. It appeared that he was telling a story. Curious, Brigitte edged closer. “…and then I was clinging to the branch for dear life

It was well past midday, and the temperatures were beginning to drop. Brigitte strained to pull her sturdy wooden wagon through the snow, her paws digging deeper into the fresh drifts with every step. We should have stopped in the last village. She shook her head to chase away the images of warm, hearty stew dancing through her mind. No, there was no point of turning back now. The only path was forward; at least she hoped that she was still on the path. The landscape had long since been blanketed in white, and the flurries kept twirling down around her. Deeper, deeper. At least her cargo wasn’t too heavy, and they were making decent time. “Are we there yet?” a singsong voice rose from the back of the wagon. Brigitte was about to respond in the negative when the wagon’s wheel struck a rock or some other hidden object under the snow, sending her tiny passenger tumbling into a snowbank with a squeak. “Are you okay!” Brigitte called out in alarm. After a brief pause, the tiny white

Crrrrrunch, scrrrrrunch, zingggg… Aveline slowly stirred and yawned. She sleepily lifted her head from the pillow and glanced around with bleary eyes. Her neighbor was up early this morning. She sighed and yawned again, willing herself to emerge from her cocoon and stretch. The smell of spindleberry blossoms greeted her as she ambled into the kitchen for breakfast. She must have forgotten to close the window before bed, as the curtains above the counter drifted lazily inward with the breeze. She swept the curtains aside and paused to take in her surroundings. It was gorgeous out. The fluffy, pink trees were covered in delicate white blooms. With every gust, the breeze sent petals dancing down through the air. Had it been four months already? After hunkering down through miasma season, she couldn’t bring herself to return home. It was like a fairy tale. There was a certain draw to eternal spring. Faerindell’s pastel forests and rolling fields full of flowers were quite the contrast to