Herbalists' Cache Protect the coven

Night; this eternal lukewarm darkness, the only light and heat a citadel which wrenches just out of reach. The girl listens closely for that ticking clock. Whenever it’s away the others fuss. Yakona fusses too, swimming with limp limbs, dragging the deadweight of her body to chase the echo to its origin.

Had she teeth, she would have clamped and tore and marked her possession in blood. As it was, she could only gum at the dribbling spout, and listen for the provider’s heartbeat. The only lullaby she knew.