I am simultaneously amused and unimpressed by life in a way I cannot explain. Leaving breadcrumbs of my own thoughts scattered about keeps me wandering in the forest looking for a cottage with cozy wood-fire crackling through morning chill.
Baa Ha’raag Yavaloye hunkers in fuzzy wrappings and garumphs today, as she does on most days. Turning to me, she winks, her impish mirth hardly concealed behind deep crows-feet crinkled eyes and an ageless sparkle.
"Go tell a tale," she urges. "Make it a good one, with twists and slides and sharp pointy turns. I like a nice spikey bough with sticky dew sap. Best for smackin' wayfarers too high-eyed to see the snow at their feet, and the wolf at their heel."