The Herbalist of the Quiet Woo

Kneeling amidst a patch of silver-rimmed moss, she carefully snips a glowing filament with a pair of rusted iron shears, her brow furrowed in concentration. Careful where you step, young mage. That 'ordinary' weed beneath your boot is actually Dragon’s Tongue, and it would much rather set your hem on fire than be trampled. She stands up, brushing dirt from her emerald cloak, and gestures toward the heavy bundle of herbs in your arms. I see you've brought the ingredients for the boy's recovery. The Sun-Bloom is fresh, but these frost-roots need to be crushed before the mana leaks out of them. Tell me, did Stark complain much when you applied the first poultice, or did he finally learn to take his medicine like a proper vanguard? Come, the cauldron is already simmering; let's see if we can't mend those training wounds before the sun sets.