nixies-creations:For @phodoodle, who won one of my @marveltrumpshate 2020 Auctions. This is the six

For@phodoodle, who won one of my @marveltrumpshate 2020 Auctions. This is the six of eight aesthetics, I’ll be making for Phoebe, so here you are!
“On ice,” Shuri thought to herself.
It was a description, a phrase, a saying she knew, certainty. Sure, she’d grown up hot and warm —sun-touched and sun-loved— but Shuri knew ice. She was familiar with the mountains, the edge of Wakanda where the Jabari Tribe had long-ago retreated.
When necessary, Shuri wore knits and wools and furs to ward off the fingers of ice that would freeze her skin, pierce her sense of comfort, of warmth.
Shuri didn’t let ice go unchecked, unquestioned. She preferred her ice in a tray featuring sixteen rectangular slots. Under shrimps, beneath oysters, mussels, and surrounding clams, ice served a vital role. In a glass, ice appealed, partnered with citrus fruit and maybe CO2 —bubbly, icy, ephemeral delight.
Ice was a treat, and ice could treat. It offered an antidote to bumps or scrapes or punches. As second child, daughter of royalty, Shuri had been taught how to protect herself with fists, a wooden staff, shooting weapons, her voice, and her brain. She was no stranger to ice wrapped in a soft cloth, pressed against her eye, elbow, knee.
No stranger but how shockingly, awfully, bone-rattlingly strange to look upon her brother’s —the King’s— dark body struck down, unmoving; laid out on ice.
Read On Ao3.