Cicadabuzz moves with quiet precision, their paws a whisper against the packed earth of their den. The scent of herbs thickens the air—sharp, musty, bitter, sweet—all interwoven into the familiar tapestry of their work. They sit in the dim glow filtering through the entrance, their tail curled neatly around their paws as they inspect the stores with a practiced eye. Some of the leaves have grown brittle with age, curling in on themselves like dying insects. Cicadabuzz brushes a paw over them, testing their texture before flicking them aside into a small pile of useless scraps. No point in keeping what won't heal. Their ears twitch as they sort, setting aside fresh replacements they gathered at sunrise. Lavender, pungent and vibrant. Yarrow, crisp and ready for use. Dried marigold petals, still potent enough to serve their purpose.
They work methodically, nudging each bundle into a neat line along the makeshift earthen shelves. Their den is small but well-kept, every herb given its place, every root and leaf accounted for. A stray poppy seed rolls from a bundle, and they pin it under a careful claw before flicking it back into place. For a while, the only sound is the rustle of plants, the occasional sigh of disturbed dust. Cicadabuzz does not mind the solitude—it is steady, reliable, like the rhythm of the wind in the trees. Their mind wanders as their paws work, drifting between memory and instinct, noting what must be replenished, what is still plentiful. Slotting the last of their new stock into place, they lean back, surveying their work. The den smells fresher now, like new growth rather than decay. They allow themselves a small nod before sweeping the discarded herbs into a heap, ready to be taken away. Another task complete, another step in the endless cycle of care.
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