Herbalists' Cache touch

@Calloon ♥

The little Groenendael was ill-equipped for the extreme drop in temperature. Her feathery pelage lacked the insulated undercoat of her lupine brethren, and her lissome musculature had long been whittled down to a waiflike fineness. The solitary life had not been kind to the atramentous sheepdog cross, a fact made evident by the jutting slopes of her spine, ribs, and hips — but her Neptune eyes were bright and inquisitive, and her catlike paws danced with sprightly grace over the rime-slick loam. In her mouth she held a “bowl” that she had crafted by soaking a rabbit pelt in seawater and laying it over a small, domed rock to freeze. Even the most vigorous shakes of her finely-sculpted head did not alter or warp the bowl’s shape — and in such unforgiving conditions, it was unlikely to thaw anytime soon. It suited her purposes perfectly.

She was far from home — far from Doe — and although this troubled her in a distant, surmountable way, her desire to please the odd-eared mother was greater than her fear of losing her way. Coelacanth was on a quest for what herbs, fruits, fungi, and moss she could salvage, and whenever she came across something she knew to be non-toxic, into the bowl it went. Success came in the form of strawberries and raspberries, frostbitten and overripe, in a casing of ice that kept them from spoilage. Eagerly and carefully, she reaped her bounty pluck by gentle pluck, licking at the ice-covered branches with her tongue and snapping them with her fangs — placing each berry into her bowl with meticulous care. Thus far she’d managed to gather precious sprigs of chamomile, mint, thyme, and sage — hardy plants that slept beneath the frost and snow. She didn’t know what they could possibly be used for, if anything, but any type of plant life in winter was a rarity. Mosses and lichen, far more common, blanketed the bottom of her bowl.

Setting down her treasured possession now that it was filled to the brim with berries, Coelacanth allowed herself a moment to simply take in her surroundings — and her attention was drawn immediately to an abandoned snail shell, round and curving, was overlaid with a thick coat of resin-like rime. She could see it quite clearly and wanted very badly to take it home with her — Amoxtli’s fervor for collecting treasure had bred an answering affinity in his twin — but the ice storm had done its work well. Thwarted, she gathered herself with a quizzical tilt of her head and pounced ineffectually, her dainty paws slipping this way and that until she completely lost her balance and sprawled out on the ice with a toneless squeak.

Backdated a bit to whenever makes sense - idek what timelines are anymore XD

The cold was unforgiving and cruel to the young spirit - his ripped skin, although tended to and healed, was free for the frost to touch. It didn't faze him, his pain-level higher than average and his mind clouded with thoughts of whatever he would come across. In the distance he saw smaller mountains - little did he know that that is where he would go after this to meet a friend for, hopefully, life. But, for now, he would try and find his way to something interesting. He hoped the Wise Ones had weaved an enchanting day for him, because the thought of removing a toe for something to happen wasn't very pleasant. Luckily, ahead of him lay a forest - frosted over, but with many things to examine. A gentle smile appeared on his pale face, but his tail did not wag to prevent more warmth from leaving his body.

Fawn-like legs carried him around many trees, the ground frozen and accented by a layer of snow that was simply not normal for even the land he came from. Like a wisp, he danced around frosted bushes and snow-covered stumps - head in the clouds and without a care in the world. Up in one tree sat a raven - staring at him as if he had gone crazy. Not long after did it leave the scene with many a flirt and flutter - but Calloon hardly noticed the absence of the black bird. So many he had lost, so many he would lose once again; he was used to it. He wasn't paying attention anymore. But his carelessness proved again to be his downfall as he almost stepped on someone were it not for her black coat that stuck out more than ever now the world was painted in white.

He scampered backwards - his already frozen bum meeting an even colder tree as he slid down into a sitting position. Soft whines left his throat in pardon - his doe-eyes growing wider in an embarrassed and scared look. He was quite on edge now the cold made for more adrenaline in his young vessel, though he was trying hard to calm down. It's just a girl - just a girl. I am safe. I have survived worse. Please. He panted almost soundlessly, slowly removing himself from the cold ground - bowing to her level to see just what she was up to.

The inkdark sheepdog cross, rather than getting immediately to her feet, had taken a moment to lick and chew fussily at the knotted clusters of frost that had collected between her feathered pads — and it was this scene that the spindly ghost quite literally stumbled upon. The alacrity of his intrusion ignited an answering wildness in the little Groenendael and the force of her alarum sent her skyward in a second stiff-legged leap that ended in a skittering shuffle. Silky fur jutted out in a comely disarray of hackles akin to an offended kitten — a sight that might have been comical if not for the uncertain curl of her lips. The very tips of her canines flashed for a fraction of a millisecond as her tufted ears pressed defensively against her skull and her back arched impossibly; she was unappeased by the gray ghost’s plaintive whines, her thin sides fluttering unevenly as her heart hammered in her chest, and her Neptune eyes were wide and frightened.

Drawing short breaths, he watched her reaction that mimicked his own panic for a bit. At least he was not alone in that sense, though he was very much alone on his own side. Friendly the female was not, which was a shame - or maybe he had just startled her too much. His own silver hackles did not go up in aggression nor fear - not even when the black not-quite-wolf raised her own and dropped her weird ears. Strange, she was, though Calloon was not one to judge by appearance. His brows furrowed in his trademark-thinking face, golden ringed eyes refusing to look her in her own enchantingly blue gaze.

Suddenly, he got a bizarre idea. Perhaps if she knew why he could not excuse himself - she'd forgive him. Yes - yes! surely that must be it. No one will kill me today. No one.

In a submissive display of sadness and fright did he open his mouth - the stump of tongue left in his mouth quite miserably wriggling around. It was with that that he let another whine for forgiveness slip - Calloon never having been one to run away from even the slightest confrontation. A peacekeeper he had been - a peacekeeper he would stay forevermore, even if it were to keep the peace with him and a total - curiously quiet - stranger.

As the moments ticked by and the spindly little spirit continued to pose no overt threat, Coelacanth began to settle; her breathing evened out and her heartbeat ceased its skipping. Feathery fur relinquished its quill-like prickling and lay flush against her skin, revealing the skeletal curves of hip, spine, and rib, and the wrinkling of her muzzle smoothed. Lingering unease was betrayed in the soft whuff that billowed up through the column of her throat and swelled her cheeks like a chipmunk’s before it burst from her lips in a pocket of fog. “Boof,” is what it sounded like, and her swift inhale following it was spent immediately on a second puff-cheeked, “boof.” Then, eager to put the uncomfortable moment behind her, she shook out her downy pelage and sneezed delicately, her tufted ears sweeping attentively forward as her Neptune eyes shyly rose.

They focused first on what he displayed to her outright: a healed over, wriggling stump where a tongue ought to have been. Nose quivering, she braved a single step toward him, finely-crafted head tilting to get a better look, but she was swift to place the distance back between them as she drew away to look more calmly upon his face. His gentle, anxious expression was not unlike Thexxan’s or Amoxtli’s, and she took comfort in this and offered the best apology she could for her own skittish behavior. Dropping her carriage so that her spine sloped and her hindquarters tucked slightly beneath her body to form an elongated curve, she lifted one dainty forepaw entreatingly and offered an airy, toneless whine of her own. Her reason for being mute was different from his, but she knew all too well what it was like to “speak” — to scream — and have it go unheard. Rook-feathered tail quivered appealingly before its tapered tip coiled around one slim hock, and her uniquely tufted ears folded demurely to nestle sheepishly against her endearingly tilted skull.

I am sorry, said the trembling of her waiflike musculature and the pert pink tongue that darted out to flick nervously at her nose, the angled cant of her head and the guilty expression in her seablue eyes.

For a moment could he look over her - admire the setting which they were in and how unfortunate the start of this quiet conversation was. She did not speak, she did not shout - she did not make a sound that started something in his very soul and made him run in fear nor respect. Only startled, it seemed, she had been - and rightfully so. Although he had not done it on purpose, he could understand why it had not been fun to almost be stepped on by a complete stranger. As a forgiving soul, she smoothed her hackles - her ears, weirdly tuffed and just as dark as the rest of her, now a display of... relaxation? Comfort? As he tried to figure out what it all had meant, she made a sound that not quite resembled a woof. His doe-eyes grew wide in confusion this time. Mad she is not - I'm sure, I'm sure. Just bizarre. He smiled then, the same sound made one more time before he echoed her waves. A toneless "wuff" left his mouth, though something that resembled laughter followed. How strange! He then dared to get up more, a more neutral stance than the one he had been in first, as she shook away the tenseness and blew away the awkwardness with a sneeze.

If he had been a trickster, he would have clamped his jaws onto each other again the moment she came closer. Luckily for them both, he would do no such thing. He let her stare - let her examine just exactly what curse had been put on him just for the will to survive. He could tell her no tales of how it happened; he could only show the results of war and hatred. No good thing came from it - never, never. As she retreated, he closed his mouth again - eyes abashedly going to the snow and ice covered ground.  

A following action from the female he had not expected - her apology well-understood but the reason why not quite clear. HE had been the one to sneak up on her. She had acted as any other would have - even more peacefully than some. His mouth agape, eyes focused on her form. Anxiously he shook his head - eyes then closed. When he opened them again, a nervous smile settled on his sunken face. He appreciated her apology - very much so; and it showed, too. But it was my fault - my fault. Keen on ending their multiple apologies, he bowed his front before her - a playful display of his forced happiness. His chin he placed gently on the cold underground, goofily tilted.

Coelacanth allowed the tension to melt from her tiny body tick by slow tick, but the instinctive urge to guard herself — to flee — was difficult to quell. The gray ghost smiled, a nervous flicker of his curving lips, and bowed good-naturedly before her with a quizzical cant of his head — he wanted to play. Tufted ears fluttered uncertainly, fanning forward upon the inkdark ingénue’s finely-crafted skull as the very tip of her feathered tail began to wriggle, but she was always one beat behind. Seelie’s lithe musculature stretched forward timorously to mirror the scarred phantom’s playful posture, graceful topline curving into an exaggerated tilde, but her Neptune eyes were wide and inquisitive rather than half-lidded and eager.

It was a curious state of affairs. Normally Coelacanth loved to play — would engage in it without hesitation — but everything had happened so fast. The charred remains of Donnelaith — Doe, beloved and dearly missed, in a puddle on the rocky shore — Szymon, angry with her, scoring the unsullied flesh of her flank with his fangs — as much as the little Groenendael wanted to please the stranger, she simply didn’t feel comfortable engaging in play with him. An airy, toneless whine danced upon her lips as she regarded her agemate with a beseeching gaze and a coquettish tilt of her head. She wanted so badly to befriend him — to reach a point where touch would be a delight for both of them — and would do her best to warm to him.

Straightening, she backed away from the silver ghost and gestured to the snail shell beneath the ice with a soft whuff and a quirk of her tapered muzzle. “Look at this!” bespoke the renewed vigor that caused her catlike paws to shimmy and her plumed tail to wave. Then, a little more cautiously, she reached into her bowl and plucked out a few berries coated slickly in ice; these she nosed toward the boy with an encouraging air.

She seemed confused, but not in a bad way. Calloon, while not a mean trickster at all, very much liked putting thoughts in someone else's mind. He liked to make them think - to make them feel something, without words. Lying was difficult, so this was just completely... him. He liked to think of himself as a half-open book. Anyone, if they tried, could read him - but he was still shielded by his own illusions. It was a scary thought that none of his ideas were ever going to reach another ear - Forever stuck in me, forever stuck. He was surprised to see the black nymph bow also - almost as if she were to play with him right then and there, but the look in her eyes was uncertain. Did he make her uncomfortable?

It seemed so - a whine escaping her nimble form as she backed away, much like he had done upon first seeing her, only she was calmer. She almost seemed... sad. Lost - abandoned to silently roam this place. He wondered what had happened - why she did not talk, but knew that she might never tell. Hell, maybe she couldn't tell him anything at all. A vow of silence? Trauma? Did the weird tuffs on her ears make her special - in such a way that she could not communicate? I wonder - I want to know, I want to know.

But she seemed to be keen on showing him something instead. He quickly got to his feet - submissively so, and dragged his ghost-like form to where she was so excitedly darting about. Then he saw it - a shell of a creature, trapped under a layer of frosty goods. What a find - what a find! So curious, so trapped, much like many! He whined - cheering for this successful treasure hunt of hers, lowering his head to look at it better before even more frozen goods were shown to him. His attention shifted curiously to the berries - sniffing them over, but doing not much more. He did not want it to seem like he was taking them from her - though it was easy to see he was impressed and glad that she was happy. Was she some kind of pirate? A treasure hunt! I'm going to show, I'm going to show!

Like a flash of grey lightning did he scamper up and turn - tripling somewhere to the side where he found a magnificent... stick! Sticks were good! He could do with a stick! He pulled it from the bushes it was stuck in - frozen over and coated with snow. Enthusiastically did he return - tail wagging proudly behind him. With a "charming" smile on his face did he await her reaction as he placed his find carefully beside the berries and the trapped shell.

Curiously, the gray ghost sniffed at the berries but demurred, bounding away with an excited, purposeful air. Coelacanth tilted her finely-sculpted head first to one side, then the other, but she did not have long to linger in her bemusement — in a flurry of motion, the bright-eyed wraith circled around and returned with a rime-encrusted stick clutched triumphantly between his teeth. It was a magnificent find — it was a magnificent stick — and the atramentous yearling’s ink-etched tail began to wave in earnest.

Lavish in her praise, Seelie danced forward on her tiptoes to trace the gnarled branch’s knotted length with the wet of her nose. She lifted her oceanic gaze to meet the silent jester’s gold-ringed one with new enthusiasm as her feathered tail began whipping wildly against her spindly hocks. “Well done!” bespoke the soft whuff that danced from her lips and nostrils in a smoky plume. Placing a paw brazenly on the boy’s prize, she began a strange, shimmying pattern: she dove forward in a playful bow, snapped at the air over the toy, and darted backward. She repeated this gesture several times before nudging the stick toward the silver phantom with her nose. All the while, playful growls no louder than a kitten’s contented purr rippled from her lips. His continued friendliness and exuberance had won her over at last.

When he returned, the feathered black seemed elated with his find which, in turn, made him glow even brighter than moments before. It was silly to think that a frozen, frost-touched stick could ever be seen as a treasure, but here they were! She inched closer, excitedly, and Calloon let her do whatever with his find. He would even allow her to keep it if she so wished, having no use for a stick. She seemed to be more familiar with the uses of these object; perhaps she could do something crafty with it for her family or pack.

When she showed signs of wanting to play, his own tail gently wagged behind him as he joined her dance - bowing playfully before her, picking up the stick when it was nudged to him and tossing it to the side. While it may have been a weird thing to do at first, he soon darted after it, picking it up and tossing it back to see if she got his game - smiling all the while as rumbling laughter came from the back of his throat.

For the first time in what seemed an impossibly long time, Coelacanth let time itself get away from her. The obsessive desire to spend each hour wisely and deliberately was lifted from her as she gamboled and leapt, pounced and wriggled. She couldn’t pretend this wolf was Amoxtli — there was no wolf who could ever superimpose her twin’s laughing visage — but there was comfort and familiarity in his wordlessness. They whirled and danced until they overheated, and Seelie nudged the ice-encrusted berries again toward her new friend, dipping her muzzle into her bowl to get a few for herself. Together they savored the jewels’ sweetness, and when the inky ingénue was pulled back to her responsibilities by a stray tendril of guilt, she left him — but not before pressing the berry-stained wet of her nose against the gay little spirit’s cheek. A soft huff of laughter produced a pocket of sweet-scented fog at the purple mark she left behind.

Then, without farewell or fanfare, she disappeared into the shadows.