I like coming out when things are desolate

Morganna hadn't lasted long in the towering (sweltering) bamboo before the mushrooms seemed to cover more of her skin than fur. She could barely move without knocking the growths off, the glowing fluid ooze coated all four of her legs and trickled from open wounds across her face and from the folds of skin around her neck and where her limbs joined her body. She itched, and burned, and tired of her mother's herbal remedies. Finally, the older wolf caved to her daughters requests to go somewhere colder, and she trailed somewhere behind, letting the young explorer race forward with her ravens, her owl somewhere ahead, bringing word of her coming to the mountain. Her mother's opossum clung to her back, grumbling all the while, but even he had noticed the way the growths seemed to wither with the drop in temperature, the snow effectively freezing many of them off. Maybe she would just have to keep herself to the cold places (it wasn't like it wasn't in her blood).