Ouroboros Spine xiii. biting words like a wolf howling

AW, botanist #1

Unfortunately, the two-year's allergies had chosen that year to act up and she'd been unable to tend to her garden the way she usually might -- not without feeling miserable anyways. The small plot she had set aside for such purposes lay in disrepair now, what few plants the herbalist had gotten into the ground beforehand long grown withered and brown. But as spring lengthened and summer approached, Lótë found herself acclimating to the weather of the Wilds and her sniffles had finally fled. 

When the morning dawned with a mild warmth, dew clinging to the grass, the tracker slipped from her ulaq and off to the tiny clearing in the pines nearby -- a place she had largely avoided since her terse conversation with Raimo. It was disheartening to see the dead plants, perished before they could really bud, and see how the grass had begun to reclaim the tilled loam.

With a deep breath of preparation, the botanist set to work -- digging and scraping at the ground to tear away the grass and begin the process of churning the dirt for gardening.