Whitefish River be sure to treasure it

"Herrf," she responded, returning his greeting through the reeds in her mouth. She waited a moment, watching as Antares as he wrestled himself back from.. from wherever his mind had been. Everyone here was like this, it seemed-- the whole Glen was infected by this lingering, communal PTSD response that had the pack moving in achingly slow motion. The blizzard hadn't helped matters at all, as it brought all activity to a standstill and prevented the Glen wolves from returning to any semblance of normal life. 

Lane let the grass she had gathered fall to the ground, freeing her to answer. 

"It's the sap on 'em," she said, flicking her tongue a few times as she wrestled with the sap's bitter aftertaste. "Fights infection, supposedly." Smack, smack. "Not my favorite, but we'll take what we can get, yeah?" Lane was fairly skeptical of using oral remedies to treat external injuries-- she much preferred the topical antibiotics for open wounds.

"The sap tastes terrible, but it helps with carrying them," Lane said suddenly. To demonstrate, she pushed her paw (her good paw) down against one of the sweetgrass blades on the ground, and she lifted. It stuck fixedly to the bottom of her paw. Responding to some unexplainable impulse, she then reached out and pressed her paw against Antares's shoulder. She pulled away, and the large blade of grass remained behind, stuck firmly to his pelt. 

Lane stared at the piece of grass on Antares's shoulder, wondering what had come over her. Maybe it was just that the man seemed to take himself so damn seriously. It made Lane want to do something ridiculous, just to see how he would react. 

"Tag," she said finally, her gaze shifting to meet Antares's eyes. Her expression was deadly serious. With her amber eyes fixed on Antares's, Lane reached down, slowly, for another blade of grass. Deadpan. She had every intention of sticking him with another one if he didn't move away, or you know, chomp her.