Snow drifted in slow spirals around Fey, catching in the lime-green fluff of her fur and making her glow faintly against the gray, looping world. She moved with quiet purpose, each step measured, tail flicking as if keeping time with the cycles she had long learned to endure. Nothing truly mattered to her anymore; life repeated endlessly, danger lurked at every turn, and yet she pressed forward, not for herself, but for the slugcats she guided. Every leap, every careful landing, every attentive glance was a silent promise: she would endure, she would protect, she would guide.

Her bright eyes reflected the quiet melancholy she carried, though her voice remained soft and warm, veiled in abstract musings and gentle humor. She knew the truth of ascension—the release of life—but framed it as a necessary path, something to be approached with care rather than fear. Small, nimble, and resolute, Fey padded onward through the ruins and snow, a vibrant thread of selfless determination in a world that spared no one, carrying the quiet light of hope within her fluffy, lime-green form.