Herbalists' Cache touch

@Calloon ♥

The little Groenendael was ill-equipped for the extreme drop in temperature. Her feathery pelage lacked the insulated undercoat of her lupine brethren, and her lissome musculature had long been whittled down to a waiflike fineness. The solitary life had not been kind to the atramentous sheepdog cross, a fact made evident by the jutting slopes of her spine, ribs, and hips — but her Neptune eyes were bright and inquisitive, and her catlike paws danced with sprightly grace over the rime-slick loam. In her mouth she held a “bowl” that she had crafted by soaking a rabbit pelt in seawater and laying it over a small, domed rock to freeze. Even the most vigorous shakes of her finely-sculpted head did not alter or warp the bowl’s shape — and in such unforgiving conditions, it was unlikely to thaw anytime soon. It suited her purposes perfectly.

She was far from home — far from Doe — and although this troubled her in a distant, surmountable way, her desire to please the odd-eared mother was greater than her fear of losing her way. Coelacanth was on a quest for what herbs, fruits, fungi, and moss she could salvage, and whenever she came across something she knew to be non-toxic, into the bowl it went. Success came in the form of strawberries and raspberries, frostbitten and overripe, in a casing of ice that kept them from spoilage. Eagerly and carefully, she reaped her bounty pluck by gentle pluck, licking at the ice-covered branches with her tongue and snapping them with her fangs — placing each berry into her bowl with meticulous care. Thus far she’d managed to gather precious sprigs of chamomile, mint, thyme, and sage — hardy plants that slept beneath the frost and snow. She didn’t know what they could possibly be used for, if anything, but any type of plant life in winter was a rarity. Mosses and lichen, far more common, blanketed the bottom of her bowl.

Setting down her treasured possession now that it was filled to the brim with berries, Coelacanth allowed herself a moment to simply take in her surroundings — and her attention was drawn immediately to an abandoned snail shell, round and curving, was overlaid with a thick coat of resin-like rime. She could see it quite clearly and wanted very badly to take it home with her — Amoxtli’s fervor for collecting treasure had bred an answering affinity in his twin — but the ice storm had done its work well. Thwarted, she gathered herself with a quizzical tilt of her head and pounced ineffectually, her dainty paws slipping this way and that until she completely lost her balance and sprawled out on the ice with a toneless squeak.