Unknown Date 2479 A.R.T
In the days following our return I had distanced myself from my brothers and sisters, the weight of the unspoken word sitting heavily upon my soul. Despite the continuing snowfall I had taken to seating myself upon the comfortable rock and looking out toward the east, watching hopefully for Butter and Skull’s return but as the days had turned into weeks my hopes of ever seeing them or my spoon again had waned. As we known it would, the Eastern Forest had made it final departure from the Known Expanse, the spectral brambles now destroyed by their creator’s hand.
As we had agreed, the crying creature which had accompanied us back from the forest had been initiated into our clan and had undergone the naming ceremony, staring at the inkblot to tell us what it saw. The creature’s response to the ink blot had been a deafening cry of “Moka-moka, moka-tuck!” which had led us to christen the creature the Mokatuck.
Sawdust had put the lengths of wood we had brought him to good use and, despite his lack of any kind of carpentry tool he had managed to construct us some fine new ladders, utilising knapped flint to shape and cut the wood. Unfortunately, the cold weather had prevented Oats from sowing any of his seeds, the bulbeacon seed burning a hole in his pockets. Despite the cold weather the lush greenery of Little Bedlam remained, the knowledge that the bunnies now had a permanent food supply being of some comfort to me.
(Ink would like to inform you that, though he acknowledges bulbeacon is capable of it, at no point did the bulbeacon seed ignite and burn a hole in Oats’ pocket. He would like to apologise if my rather inaccurate and alarmist statement caused anyone to worry for Oats’ welfare or for the secureness of his trouser pockets.)
The Mokatuck would often join me in my solitude, coiling its serpentine body around my rock and lying at my feet, its tears freezing in snow. Horizon would often join us too, sitting with me during my solemn vigils. Though I’m sure it was there, none of the natural winter beauty that I documented earlier in this diary had been apparent to me. I had not noticed the glittering ice-crystals in the air, I could not see the beauty of the flawless, untouched snow and I could not appreciate the majesty and potential risk of impalement given by the assembled icicles. All I felt and all I saw was the cold, the absence of my friends and the Unspoken Word, tormenting me from the depths of my mind.
The view to the East remained the same day after day, offering me no peace or distraction from my troubles. That is of course until the day that everything changed, the day when I had heard the sweet music of a flute carrying on the frigid air. That had been the day that I had seen a slight, feeble figure stumble through from the miasma of swirling ice below me, only to collapse into the snow.
That had been the day that Edelweiss had come into our lives.