Lost Creek Hollow but I know that wicked shape to your smile

catmint, yarrow, moss and whatever that root had been - her repitiore was growing. slowly. as was her basic knowledge, but it was a process better not rushed. he gaze wandered to her tail, to which she gave it a purposeful twitch. her breath left her in a hiss; somewhere between her den and here she'd forgotten how painful that was. when the stabbing pain had lowered to a simmering burn again, she broke the silence. "well," she began, "what is useful?" brisbane had suggested yarrow, and she knew that the pale woman had offered the root against infection. it seemed to have done well for the scabbed-over wounds on her chest, but less so (obviously) for her tail.