For the first time in a while, Mir pokes her head out of her cave. She's considering going back south, but she wants to be close by to see more of Fiora-- though she's been reclusive lately, focusing mostly on her studies. Her work has uncovered something promising: a strain of mold that grows easily on dead things. And it seems to cure certain illnesses. She does not know what causes the curing, but merely that the few phlegmatic raccoons she's caught have proven to be improving upon being given the mold.

Of course, it has its drawbacks. Nausea, primarily, from what she can tell. But she cultivates it, watching the spores grow and bloom and foster in her little cave.

For now, though, she's stretching her legs and thinking of things other than her experiments. She has to find some sort of food in this winter hell, after all. And she has to not think about the mysterious dreams from earlier this year, or how she was reborn in a new body, or how there are factors of this world outside of her control.

Mir treads through the snow, looking for any signs of prey.