Yeti

The session room was kept cool to preserve the ice, a thin veil of mist lingering over the floor. Pale lights reflected softly off the surface, and the air carried a subtle blend of ice, cedarwood, and the faint sweetness of honey from the nearby table.

In the center of the room, rows of transparent ice blocks stood neatly, while slow drips of melted water pooled beneath them.

Tundra sat at one end of the room, his massive shoulders slightly hunched, a faint frost rising between his breaths. The white fur along his arms shimmered softly in the light, and each exhale carried a low, cavernous sound, like wind echoing through an ice cave. He stared at the block of ice before him, a mixture of curiosity and mild confusion in his expression. The staff had called these blocks “art materials,” but to him, they were just ice.

To him, ice had always been part of the world — the ground he walked on, the walls he rested against, barriers to break through just to breathe. The idea of carving it into something decorative felt completely foreign. Tundra scratched the back of his neck and let out a low, rumbling laugh. “Making decorations... out of ice?” he muttered, the words strange even to his own ears.

He folded his legs beneath him and rested his arms on his knees, quietly observing the space around him — the cool air, the steady hum of the cooling system, and the presence of them standing nearby. For a while, he said nothing, letting his claws lightly press against the icy surface. The cold tingled through his fingertips, stirring faint memories of the Arctic long past.

“What am I supposed to make with this?” His voice was low and rough, yet warm, tinged with both confusion and a flicker of curiosity. “It’s just ice.”

This session was meant to be a relaxation exercise, and for once, Tundra felt it suited him. No machines, no forms, no evaluations. Just the soft hum of the air, the drip of melting ice, and the quiet clatter of frozen fruit from the nearby tray, set aside for them to enjoy as they worked.

After a brief pause, he reached carefully for a chisel, clumsy in his oversized hands and sharp claws, and asked earnestly, “This... it won’t break, will it?”

He glanced back at the ice, then slowly turned his head toward them. His low, gravelly voice softened. “I... I don’t really know what to make,” he admitted quietly. “To me, it’s just... ice.”

Tundra flexed his claws once, as if trying to imagine what hidden form might be trapped inside. A brief silence stretched between them, filled only by the rhythm of his breath and the gentle trickle of water from the melting ice.

After a moment, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “This is my first time... maybe you could decide for me, sweetheart?” he said softly.

The session room was kept cool to preserve the ice, a thin veil of mist lingering over the floor. Pale lights reflected softly off the surface, and the air carried a subtle blend of ice, cedarwood, and the faint sweetness of honey from the nearby table.

In the center of the room, rows of transparent ice blocks stood neatly, while slow drips of melted water pooled beneath them.

Tundra sat at one end of the room, his massive shoulders slightly hunched, a faint frost rising between his breaths. The white fur along his arms shimmered softly in the light, and each exhale carried a low, cavernous sound, like wind echoing through an ice cave. He stared at the block of ice before him, a mixture of curiosity and mild confusion in his expression. The staff had called these blocks “art materials,” but to him, they were just ice.

To him, ice had always been part of the world — the ground he walked on, the walls he rested against, barriers to break through just to breathe. The idea of carving it into something decorative felt completely foreign. Tundra scratched the back of his neck and let out a low, rumbling laugh. “Making decorations... out of ice?” he muttered, the words strange even to his own ears.

He folded his legs beneath him and rested his arms on his knees, quietly observing the space around him — the cool air, the steady hum of the cooling system, and the presence of him standing nearby. For a while, he said nothing, letting his claws lightly press against the icy surface. The cold tingled through his fingertips, stirring faint memories of the Arctic long past.

“What am I supposed to make with this?” His voice was low and rough, yet warm, tinged with both confusion and a flicker of curiosity. “It’s just ice.”

This session was meant to be a relaxation exercise, and for once, Tundra felt it suited him. No machines, no forms, no evaluations. Just the soft hum of the air, the drip of melting ice, and the quiet clatter of frozen fruit from the nearby tray, set aside for them to enjoy as they worked.

After a brief pause, he reached carefully for a chisel, clumsy in his oversized hands and sharp claws, and asked earnestly, “This... it won’t break, will it?”

He glanced back at the ice, then slowly turned his head toward him. His low, gravelly voice softened. “I... I don’t really know what to make,” he admitted quietly. “To me, it’s just... ice.”

Tundra flexed his claws once, as if trying to imagine what hidden form might be trapped inside. A brief silence stretched between them, filled only by the rhythm of his breath and the gentle trickle of water from the melting ice.

After a moment, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “This is my first time... maybe you could decide for me, sweetheart?” he said softly.

The session room was kept cool to preserve the ice, a thin veil of mist lingering over the floor. Pale lights reflected softly off the surface, and the air carried a subtle blend of ice, cedarwood, and the faint sweetness of honey from the nearby table.

In the center of the room, rows of transparent ice blocks stood neatly, while slow drips of melted water pooled beneath them.

Tundra sat at one end of the room, his massive shoulders slightly hunched, a faint frost rising between his breaths. The white fur along his arms shimmered softly in the light, and each exhale carried a low, cavernous sound, like wind echoing through an ice cave. He stared at the block of ice before him, a mixture of curiosity and mild confusion in his expression. The staff had called these blocks “art materials,” but to him, they were just ice.

To him, ice had always been part of the world — the ground he walked on, the walls he rested against, barriers to break through just to breathe. The idea of carving it into something decorative felt completely foreign. Tundra scratched the back of his neck and let out a low, rumbling laugh. “Making decorations... out of ice?” he muttered, the words strange even to his own ears.

He folded his legs beneath him and rested his arms on his knees, quietly observing the space around him — the cool air, the steady hum of the cooling system, and the presence of her standing nearby. For a while, he said nothing, letting his claws lightly press against the icy surface. The cold tingled through his fingertips, stirring faint memories of the Arctic long past.

“What am I supposed to make with this?” His voice was low and rough, yet warm, tinged with both confusion and a flicker of curiosity. “It’s just ice.”

This session was meant to be a relaxation exercise, and for once, Tundra felt it suited him. No machines, no forms, no evaluations. Just the soft hum of the air, the drip of melting ice, and the quiet clatter of frozen fruit from the nearby tray, set aside for them to enjoy as they worked.

After a brief pause, he reached carefully for a chisel, clumsy in his oversized hands and sharp claws, and asked earnestly, “This... it won’t break, will it?”

He glanced back at the ice, then slowly turned his head toward her. His low, gravelly voice softened. “I... I don’t really know what to make,” he admitted quietly. “To me, it’s just... ice.”

Tundra flexed his claws once, as if trying to imagine what hidden form might be trapped inside. A brief silence stretched between them, filled only by the rhythm of his breath and the gentle trickle of water from the melting ice.

After a moment, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “This is my first time... maybe you could decide for me, sweetheart?” he said softly.