Herbalists' Cache hanging on in quiet desperation

The proverbial wine had run out.

Aisling pushed her way through the thicket, newly blooming brush impeding every other step. Not that it was a bad thing—the fruits and berries offered by each of those branches were a blessing, a balm to her frantic mind.

She carried with her a beaver's skin, empty and hanging in a loose arc beneath her jaws. 

Soon, it would be full again. The poor shadow had subsisted on what she could find rotting and fermenting from their hosts, but it was still early in the season. The buzz was fading, and the desperation had set in.

Now, though, things were budding, growing. Every time she found a harvest, she would set the skin down, pluck the fruits and place them neatly down, then bundle them up again as she went along. Soon, she'd have enough for a cache. And after that. . .

She chuckled to herself, feeling her muscles twitch in anticipation. Soon, she'd have multiple caches—and she'd be happy again.