who's that in the garden?

[chaucer]

on a misty morning, you're strolling through the undergrowth in the rambling garden of your grandmother's old mansion. the air is still and crisp. suddenly, something-- just a feeling, really-- makes you stop. you blink, and your eyes find that of a mysterious creature amidst the clover, with lush white fur and an empty, skeletal face. the pair of you share a look, a split moment of mutual peace and understanding. then, as quickly as the moment began, it ends: the creature turns, and pads away.