Blackfeather Woods I send a pestilence, a plague

He didn't know what to make of his uncle's statement. He was not used to the cryptic statements that Cicero had once been famous for, so he merely squinted at him, hummed, and then turned his head back to the herbs. Something like that, He murmured, sifting through the leaves and bushels. He at first thought that this was some casual, boring conversation, but a single word led him to turn back to his uncle. Poisons?