Lost Creek Hollow swiftfoot

She came darting into the hollow, huffing and puffing up a storm. She sounded almost like a deer in that moment, snorting an alarm call. But, of course, Faun was was just herself, and she had come back from a brisk run to continue stocking what she could find.

Winter had sunk her long claws into the area, ready to pounce on the dying remains of autumn. Droplets cling to her coat in a fine mist, leaving her breathless from cold. She was thankful she was short coated in the summer months, but she was ruthlessly reminded of it during winter. Even with her short run, she was shivering, flowers clenched in her jaws as she danced across the narrow streams separating her from her cache and sleeping place. Ever since she had been accepted within the borders of this place, she had been a flurry of activity, gathering plants from dawn until dusk, and spending half the night cataloguing them.

She hopped a final creek and padded the last few steps to her claimed sleeping place. An old log leaning onto a tree beside it, brambles and brush clinging to it and shrouding parts of it from the cold. It was there she had made a warm place to sleep, and in the hollow of the exposed roots, she stored her herbs. That was where she went today, setting down her plants in the enclosed brush, thankful for a break from the wind, before she began to nose through the plants, murmuring beneath her breath over each one.