It is a long false-night for the Taint. Her fur is dashed with dewdrip streaks, and her mask is cold and hard. The cracks in the imperfect wood of her mask are clear as day, and the eternal scar born upon the fore by Vein is forever there.

The flowers surrounded her on one side, and both mud and dirt danced on the other. Grass seemed invisible in the false night. The cloak of cold broke through her warm fur. She shivered.

Her body trembled and her heart beat with irregularity. She dare not move, dare not tremble.

"C....c..cold...s...s..s....o..c-cold..."

Within her mind flashed the thoughts of sleep.

Slowly she was losing herself to the cold. The chill, forever aching up her spine, was enough to overwhelm any living being. She with her taint, with her curse, and with her querious condition...lay still.

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Don't worry, Taint's fine. I've just been feeling off today, and poetic, and I just needed to write. So don't mind it ^^;;;...