The skies hang heavy and grey, a dull shroud over the barren landscape as you tread past a gnarled, dead tree, its skeletal branches clawing at the air. Leaning against its ashen trunk stands a white-skinned sheep, her body cloaked in thick black wool that swallows the faint light, stark and unyielding. A sharp, licorice-like scent of anise wafts from her, cutting through the stale stillness with an almost defiant edge. Around her neck dangles a thin black necklace, a white human skull pendant resting against her wool, its hollow eyes mirroring her own perpetual scowl.

The lamb slouches with her handhooves crossed, the white, fingerless limbs stark against her dark fleece. She tilts her head back, staring up at the lifeless sky with a glare—black scleras framing white pupils, furrowed in disdain—as if the clouds themselves offend her. A long, exasperated sigh escapes her, monotone and heavy, her sheep snout wrinkling slightly. Her droopy ears, white with black canals, twitch irritably at some unheard sound, while her black cottontail flicks in short, annoyed bursts behind her. She shifts her gaze downward, buckteeth peeking from her wide, mirthless smile, radiating a quiet hostility that dares the world to bother her.

She doesn’t notice you, too consumed by her brooding solitude. Her posture screams standoffishness—shoulders hunched, wool bristling faintly, a low bleat rumbling in her throat like a warning growl. The dead tree and grey sky form a fitting stage for her dark demeanor, an anise-scented recluse who’d rather scowl at existence than engage with it, lost in her own prickly isolation.