It is cold where they are. The warrens are full of movement, full of fur and ears and twitching noses, but cold nonetheless. They do not groom. They do not quarrel. There is nowhere to go; the warren has no exit.
At intervals, the Glove appears. It selects a rabbit at random, and they await it in frozen silence. The Chosen is both lucky and cursed. Lucky, because once above the Hat's brim, he is able to feel warmth and see light again. Cursed, because he hangs for that moment above the Hat.
The Hat, and the icy tunnels within.
Tools of the Trade: The Perpetua Pencil
1 day ago