Herbalists' Cache touch

The inkdark sheepdog cross, rather than getting immediately to her feet, had taken a moment to lick and chew fussily at the knotted clusters of frost that had collected between her feathered pads — and it was this scene that the spindly ghost quite literally stumbled upon. The alacrity of his intrusion ignited an answering wildness in the little Groenendael and the force of her alarum sent her skyward in a second stiff-legged leap that ended in a skittering shuffle. Silky fur jutted out in a comely disarray of hackles akin to an offended kitten — a sight that might have been comical if not for the uncertain curl of her lips. The very tips of her canines flashed for a fraction of a millisecond as her tufted ears pressed defensively against her skull and her back arched impossibly; she was unappeased by the gray ghost’s plaintive whines, her thin sides fluttering unevenly as her heart hammered in her chest, and her Neptune eyes were wide and frightened.