In the temple orchard, a comely young priestess, her rosy robe snug too her generous chest, stood facing the dawn with her hands outstretched in an entreating gesture, palms up, and a blissful smile on her face.  Rosy lips moved, giving life to a dulcet morning canticle for a congregation resting splayed out in the boughs of various trees…<br/><br/>A mother Tressym—a winged cat—and her six, month old kittens.<br/>