Herbalists' Cache roots

The forest was quiet in winter, muffled by the thick blanket of snow that softened every sound, yet its secrets remained untouched by the season’s weight. The coniferous canopy stretched overhead, the heavy boughs sagging with frost and snow, casting dappled shadows onto the pine-needle-strewn ground below. It was unassuming at first glance—a stretch of trees and silence—but Nimbus had learned long ago that a place was more than it seemed.  

His pawsteps were deliberate as he moved through the woods, his silvered coat blending seamlessly with the pale light of early dawn. The air was sharp with cold, carrying faint hints of pine and the dormant scents of the forest floor. Even in winter, life clung stubbornly to the undergrowth. Berries hardened by frost, fungi clinging to the sides of fallen logs, and herbs hidden beneath patches of snow—it was a trove for those who knew where to look.  

Nimbus paused near a crumbling log, lowering his nose to the ground. His breath clouded the air as he caught a faint scent—earthy, bitter, and unmistakable. A patch of frost-cracked mushrooms clung to the wood, their dark caps a stark contrast against the pale bark. He nudged them lightly with his nose, his pale yellow eyes narrowing. They were small, but they might serve a purpose.  

Lyra he whwhispered she would have loved such a place in any season.

He straightened, his ears swiveling as a distant rustle reached him through the stillness. A visitor, perhaps, or a predator. Either way, the forest would decide what came next.