There is nothing soft about Wessex; not from the cold muscle of her body, to the sharp horns on her head. She has no mothering instinct. So this whole… ‘give me a soft pillow’ demand actually does make the soldierly woman laugh out loud. Oh poor, poor Yeti. Who has to live up here in the cold without nary a pillow to rest his sharp-toothed head upon. And to ask for it after spraying the grass-eaters with partially masticated food, oh he must have something everyone wants.

And if everyone wants it, Wessex assumes she’ll want it too. So let them play the puppets to the overly large cotton ball and be done with it.

Done chuckling, Wessex turns and tries to get some inspiration from the surrounding environment. Rocks - nah, the complete opposite of soft, and obnoxious as this fucker is, she isn’t about to test the effectiveness of her horns against those lovely, rancid chompers. A ‘barking’ sound draws her attention to somewhere down the mountain, and she recognizes it as a groundhog’s call - almost as if it were saying ’Here I am, please come and get sleepy little me!’ Which, of course, Wessex would happily oblige to. She manages to get close to the post-hibernation rodent, who does seem to be either unobservant, or in the process of waking up. Hooves dash its skull to bits, and then the tip of her nose horn rip its abdomen open in order to half shake, half paw its organs and ribs out.

In an ideal world, she’d totally rid the carcass of all flesh and bones, but there seemed to a sort of time limit on these tasks, so she just tore off the crushed head (that was more difficult than expected) and then stuffed the fresh kill with sweet, green mountain grass. It would be soft… for awhile. Long enough for the Yeti to fall asleep, and then, well… by then they’d all be long gone.

Wessex carries the bloodied mess back to the group and deposits it amongst the finely woven creations, noting lots of moss and fur and feathers. They’d clearly taken their time to impress the Yeti. She’s curious to see what will come of all of their efforts. To her, none of them stuck out every single time. But she is a mere tiny pons, not a great Yeti. What does Wessex know?