Herbalists' Cache just like you

each step reveals more bounty beneath the receding frost. coltsfoot, its golden petals still shut tight. burdock, its broad leaves curled, hiding the roots that would soon swell with life. even a sprig of thyme, its scent sharp in her nostrils as she pulls it free.
one by one, she gathers them and stashes the bundle at her feet. the dull ache in her jaw is a welcome one, but not so much as the rancid tang of something sour in the wind. her lips curl, forming a slight wrinkle on her muzzle. 
a stranger—a large, burly beast—enters her periphery. anoré does not miss the the flash of her teeth, nor the spittle pooling in the corner of the woman's lips.
the bile in the snow, the thin sheen of exhaustion, the way her body shields itself as if from an enemy within. not a challenge, then. a defense. sickness, anoré thinks, or something close to it.
the moonborne does not heed her warning and she takes a step forward. not out of impudence, but recognition. pale eyes inspect the woman, "you are ill?" she asks. a brief glance to her cluster of herbs, then back to the woman, "i have remedies."