Upon the fields Cymir could not help but grimace. The land, covered by untouched snow, glared under the early sun. Several days had passed since that exhausting chase, yet at this moment his calves suffered the most. The perpetrator, wooden boards tied to his feet. Forcing a waddle. All to prevent succumbing to the snow layers below and its unknown depths.

  Trailing behind his companion, Cymir said, "How... how far do we have to... go..."

  "We can take a break. The day's still young," Menor replied.

  "I'm... fine. Just not... use to these snowshoes... If only I... could walk... normally..."

  "And soak your socks again?"

  Unlike the struggling youth, Menor strolled without effort nor support. Light-footed he claimed to be, yet such a statement only drew doubt. Despite carrying all the foraging supplies, his steps never seemed to disturb the snow. Even without the proper footwear. As if he trudged upon solid ground.

  Some time had passed since they first departed. Moving far north of the Eastline district towards the permitted foraging areas. Who knew hiking and trekking would be involved. Cymir certainly did not. Lamenting at the distance he question why they could not just search the forests they passed prior.

  Shaking his head, Menor sighed. The woods of the Outertrail district would yield a wastes of time. Explaining how winter's thaws grew under the snow and upon decayed vegetation. Those grounds were specifically altered to grow imported trees. Protected by snowkeep and evergreen species that prevented build up. While specialized fertilizer and mulches covered the earth to ward off unwanted vegetation.

  Attracted to those words the youth quickly waddled closer. Asking if the city had such a capability why not domesticate the herb. To the question Menor chuckled. Joking if the youth desired more obnoxious labor instead of the current task.

  Then towards the distance he pointed. Where roofs of a dim color stood upon the white landscape. Herb nurseries ran by the Carto Association. Although those homes brought bountiful harvests, those plants would never compare to those foraged. A lack in potency and strength.

  "Huh?" Cymir scratched his head. "How come you know so much about these?"

  "Competitive research. Finding the differences between winter's and late thaws is valuable."

  "Late Thaws? Ah, I remember. Those are the ones we want to avoid. Makes things deadly I think."

  "More potent. Its concentration led to unintended overdoses- to say in lighter terms."

  Taken aback by the revelation, Cymir gave a knowing nod. He recalled the grass acted as a foundational ingredient to create a basic medical supply, numbers. Only needing to chew the grass to make a paste or simply swallow a bit to numb pain. To think such a truth of deception laid within the common remedy. Haunted by concern he inquired about other facts of the herb. Only to find a stare. One of a mix between annoyance and disappointment, despite the straight face.

  Under such, the youth scratched the back of his head before quickly rambling. Spewing the details he knew. Whilst taking out his journal to list off more. All in hopes to mend that stare by showing his own research-

  Even a pigeon would burrow for more than dried seeds.

  Akin to a kick to the shin that line struck back. The youngster stopped. To retort seemed impossible from what he understood, yet the intent was as clear as it was venomous. If only the details of those minute moment had been elaborated on. Now only a sense of regret and guilt remained.

  Despite hanging his head in shame, he quickly pointed elsewhere. Towards a snow covered forest a bit from them. If the topic gets diverted it never happened! Such a thought acted as a bastion. Hearing a sigh and agreement, he rushed forward and fell face first into the snow.

  Upon arriving, Cymir rested against the nearest tree. He sat upon one of the few patches of dry, but cold ground. Drinking a warm cup of tea he sneezed. It's sweet scent waded through the chill that touched his nose. Why was early spring so cold? Even if he received a face full of snow. At least snowshoes could be foregone here.

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  Over yonder Menor lit a lantern and begun observing the snow covered forest floor. Holding it near the ground for shadows. Steady and meticulously he moved. Sweeping away layers of snow with experienced and gloved hands. It had not been a dozen minutes before several bundles were swiftly harvest.

  Jumping up with strength from distilled, liquid warmth Cymir joined the search. Wandering through the spacious woods upon patches of dirt, snow and wild grass, he found a subtle eeriness. Outside of the crunch of sticks below their steps all else remained silent. Must be the winter's shush from what he recalled. The season where the impending spring waited to bloom. For the myriad of vegetation to color the muddy nature.

  With a lit lantern the youth mimicked his companion. Only to find difficulty. If held too high no shadows would be cast. Too low it snagged on the ground. Where the oil within would spill out. Such consideration conduction to find the smallest lumps of displaced snow. A sign of their herb sprouting. Beyond those mishaps several more mistakes became known

  The flame within flicked to not a few times. Other moments the lantern banged against bits of wood and branches. Luckily the light already showed signs of damage and dents with chipped paint all around. Surely these new bruises would not be noticed. Oddly enough his companion's tools looked of a higher quality.

  After a third search, the youngster grinned. Finally, a tight bundle of winter's thaws poked through the snow. Perfectly mirroring the images of that book, brown stems with white bulbs. Akin to a stick stuck with snow... Was this really the herb?

  Poking the grass Cymir doubted his eye, yet instincts knew otherwise. Remember the joyful gal's instructions, of the other day, he carefully tied the plant near the base. Then pulled out small garden shears to cut below the knot. Snipping multiple. Scentless sap flowed unrestrained and dyed the near snow a tint of orange. Even the singular tied stem fell empty. Staring at the wasted cuts the youth covered the failure and walked away.

  Only finding more mishaps he moved his fingers and frowned. Although warm, the gloves he wore felt stiff under frozen sap. Such failed to permit the desired dexterity. Maybe if he took them off... The cold stung, but allowed freedom. Only to come to regret as moving slush had his hands shiver to near frost.

  Exhaling a warm breath into his hands he glanced towards his foraging satchel. Significantly smaller then his own. Out of several attempts only a few bore fruit. At most four, but sadly of the poorest quality. Why was this so hard? The instructions were simple. Find the herb. Tie the grass. Snip the thaw. He even watched Menor's swift work to replicate, but that man's speed matched his confidence.

  How tedious. The youth understood why such an activity repelled. Despite seemingly simple in text the effort never reward with generosity. To search. To uncover. To harvest. Such a though sapped both strength and joy.

  Staring at the bruised grass, Cymir asked, "Hey. I know that pulling them by the roots causes the sap to degrade, but couldn't we drain the sap instead?"

  "And pay apothecaries' filtering fees? Just tie them harder," Menor replied, yelling from a bit away.

  "Tighter? But the grass popped! What about freezing them?"

  "Antifreeze properties."

  "How about-"

  "Did you even look at the foraging reports?"

  Cymir tilted his head with slight glittering eyes. Despite not speaking a word, the silence spoke more than enough for Menor to shake his head. Mutting a question of how such a person passed the entry assessment. As such the man elaborated. Foraging reporters were simply submitted paperwork about various harvesting methods. Be it from the simplest to the most bizarre.

  Led by a sigh the man walked back. Two satchels swayed from his coat, while carrying another by hand. A quick glace spotted disheveled, orange snow. Watch. He beckoned and led away. Trim only a few to allow others to grow. He mentioned. More than enough were harvested here.

  Along the forest edge the night-haired of the two let out a breath. Wandering and meandering before he stopped. There he knelt and uncovered a pocket of winter's thaws. Demonstrating, he spun a string, into a loose loop, around the upper portion of a stem. Then carefully led it downwards before pulling it taut. Whist poking a hole, with shears, below. Once tight he snipped twice, using only the tip of the tool.

  Raising up the thaw, Menor said, "Like this. A harvest doesn't need to be done in a single fell sweep. Practice makes precision and precision makes perfection."

  Leaning forward to observe, Cymir replied, "Perfection? Can't we get more by cutting lower?"

  "Enough is just enough," Menor answered, continuing to harvest more, "Even animals would refrain for gluttony. Indulging in perfection isn't recommended."

  "But you just said..."

  Scratching the back of his head Cymir pondered. Although displayed with extra steps, what his companions showed easily sidestepped all the issues he experienced. Even that cheerful girl failed to mention a method to prevent the thaw from bursting. Did she not know? If such details were in those reports, maybe looking into them would be worthwhile? Perhaps alternative methods had been found for other subjects too? Of magical or material means? Once his combat authorization arrives then he could-

  Spotting a dark, blob in the distance, Cymir asked, "Is that a bear?"

  "Bears are still hibernating," replied Menor.

  "I know I haven't seen one before, but its big, brown and fluffy..."

  "Again. The temperature is still too cold. Even if one woke up early they wouldn't roam into a domesticated" - he looked up - "that's a cub!"