Mole snorted. “Help how? You’ve never helped anything but your own belly.”
In the heart of the Whispering Woods, there lived a weasel named Lala. She had the silkiest coat and the brightest eyes, but her heart was a knot of thorns. The other animals called her “wicked” for good reason. lala wicked weasel
“I am,” whispered Lala.
Lala slunk from the shadows. “Fighting is stupid,” she sneered. “I’ll just take what I need. That’s what the strong do.” She darted toward Badger’s apples, but her paws were weak—she hadn’t eaten properly in days, either. She tripped on a root and tumbled into a dry ditch. Mole snorted
“No,” said Lala. “I’m the same weasel. But I learned that ‘wicked’ is just speed without kindness. And speed without kindness runs in circles—fast, but going nowhere.” She had the silkiest coat and the brightest