Herbalists' Cache never had to knock on wood

Odd to wander around aimlessly, even to pick up the trail: 6.

Coelacanth’s tail windmilled behind her as she shimmied nearer on dancing paws that couldn’t seem to quiet; they beat an eager pitter-patter on the rime-slick ground while a soft, toneless whine spilled from her lips in an overture of desperate friendliness. The golden-masked wolf had accepted her, and she sheltered briefly in his reassuring shadow before fanning out across the taiga with her nose alternately hovering above the ground and pointing skyward. Spindly legs carried her in a lissome, flowing gait as she ranged in a series of wide arcs, always returning to the predominantly grayscale male, betraying her subconscious desire to verify that he was still there — still with her. Salmon pink tongue darted from betwixt her canines to swipe across her nose, heightening her sense of smell, as a blistering winter wind buffeted at her waiflike framework. On a whim, she scouted far to the northwest — “the Sea always provides,” Szymon often said — and was rewarded with a pile of elk droppings that, while not precisely warm, had not frozen solid.

Turning her finely-crafted head, she “barked” — an airy whuff punctuated by a soft snap! of her fangs.