Asheran picked around the base of a narrow tree, sifting through tangled clumps of weeds, prickly bushes, rotting leaves and fallen branches. He was trying to stick to the shade without drifting too far from the rest of the group, with mixed results. This put him squarely on the other side of the camp from the numbweed pots - which was fine by him - but not too far from the stew pot, which was a temptation in and of itself. It had been a few hours now since they'd started, and all he had to show for it were a few new nicks on his already tannercraft-scabbed hands where thorns had cut and tugged at his skin during a careless moment.
He straightened with a wince and rubbed his torn knuckles again, looking about. His stomach was starting to growl, and he again eyed the stew pot - but the heat that way was miserable, and there seemed to be a line up anyway. He'd go after it died down, despite the growing gnaw in his belly, and --
As his gaze slid away, his attention caught on something else: a little white flower struggling gamefully to grow beneath the soft, mushy part of a fallen bit of bark. It sort of looked like a flit, curling around a cracked pebble down there, and the conversation he'd overheard a week or two ago between two of the other Candidates jumped immediately to mind. He wasn't generally one to believe in that sort of thing, but that was back in the barracks - and now here he was, and it couldn't hurt to hedge his bets, could it?
With a pinch and twist, he popped the flower from its stem and, without a second's hesitation, stuffed it into the worn leather satchel he'd brought along. Then, hedging his bets further, he tugged the stem out with the root still attached, shook off the dirt, and tucked that away too. There were a lot of Candidates, after all. He didn't want to miss out when the time came.
He looked toward the stew pot again, quieted another growl of his stomach, then bent over and began scrabbling through the bush with a bull-headed determination. He'd find more of those flowers. Maybe he'd even pass extras out to his friends - though when he thought of who he might give a flower to, his mind came up blank.
He paused, smoothing down his short beard. It had taken him an entire Turn of shaving and grooming and fussing over it for it to come back in this way, without any patchy bare spots. He was as proud of it as a clutching dragon of her eggs.
Which brought him back full circle to the little white flowers.
So he redoubled his efforts, grinning like a dragon among the wherries.