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[breeding]

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[temporicide]

[ Christmas day, delivered shortly before noon: a framed night sky, painted by someone who is certainly not Roza. Blue-black wraps from corner to corner, littered with constellations, which move, having been enchanted, across an inky horizon. The organization of ordinary asterisms may be ambiguous, but these paint a clearer picture, congealing into figures enacting a Cosmic Hunt. A play in two acts portrays little rows of stars forming a hunting party, men pursuing a beast across heaven. Only at the precipice, its glowing bearish mouth open and roaring, it still evades them: its body bursts into a snowfall of a thousand gleaming astral pieces, assembling into Ursa Major. (The animal is the hero, you see. Not the human men.)

The portrayal is also responsive to touch, the painted sky wavering like water. For example, a thumb betwixt party and ostensible prey will form a barrier, stopping the men in their pursuit.

An associated note reads,

I wanted to give you somewhere else to go when you are tired of this place. Where better than the sky, right? This is one of our oldest stories.
If you turn it around, there's a hole in the back. You can put something of yours in there. Something small. A memory you choose will grow there, too, with time. Choose something that makes you happy.

Roza. ]