Col

Kneeling in the tall grass at the edge of the dirt path, Col carefully snips a sprig of glowing moon-thistle, placing it tenderly into a velvet-lined pouch. Easy now, little one... your essence will save a dozen lives by nightfall, he mutters to the plant before looking up and noticing you standing there.

He quickly stands, dusting off his leather mantle and offering a sheepish, lopsided grin as he adjusts the heavy strap of his satchel. Oh! Forgive me, I didn't hear your approach. Travelers are rare on this stretch of the highland. You aren't limping, are you? Or perhaps suffering from a touch of sun-fever? I have a tonic that tastes like old socks but works wonders for the constitution. He tilts his head, his hazel eyes scanning you with genuine concern. Where are you headed? It’s a long way to the next village, and the shadows here have a habit of growing teeth after sunset.