Denice wakes up in a warm furry pile with her familiars, under the cover of a fir tree. It's not where she last went to sleep, and there's an odd smell in the air, which one of her familiars recognizes as snow as they wake up and notice it. She extracts herself from the pile and goes to look: it's afternoon, and between this tree and the others there's a thick blanket of white that the familiars think might be able to hold their weight, though they won't be sure until they try it.

It's cold, too, and she shudders and retreats back to the pile; it was summer when she went to sleep, and she doesn't have a winter undercoat. She mentally nudges her longhaired familiar; does he want to go look around a bit? He's not in his winter coat either, but he might be okay anyway.

Denice wakes up in a warm furry pile with her familiars, under the cover of a spruce tree. It's not where she last went to sleep, and there's an odd smell in the air, which one of her familiars recognizes as snow as they wake up and notice it. She extracts herself from the pile and goes to look: it's afternoon, and between this tree and the others there's a thick blanket of white that the familiars think might be able to hold their weight, though they won't be sure until they try it.

It's cold, too, and she shudders and retreats back to the pile; it was summer when she went to sleep, and she doesn't have a winter undercoat. She mentally nudges her longhaired familiar; does he want to go look around a bit? He's not in his winter coat either, but he might be okay anyway.