Northstar Vale it's the smell of schizophrenia

He did not respond to her threat, for he lacked basic fear of her. Whatever had inspired him to return to the Vale's borders remained with him even now, and as the golden woman grew fraught with ire, he himself withdrew, cooling before the fire of her rage. To her demand he stepped forward boldly, planting both paws into the mess of torn sage leaves, and regarded her pointedly. He would not depart, not without the herbage he had come for; irregardless of what the Vale bitch said to him, she could not shake the witch's resolve.

It seemed she stumbled then; his ears cupped forward with a new and morbid interest. Found your healer? Lecter inquired, for that would imply she had been lost — or had abandoned those in need of her. A mere glissade of foresight told the pale madman that the woman before him sought to hide something; one of her build and demeanour was a warrior, not a healer, and would not have know what the plants were.

You would destroy the most precious of plants so that I could not take it with me? Lecter scoffed, icewater eyes narrowing in scorn. In truth, sage was commonplace and far from treasured, but the Vale creature had already proven her ignorance to him. At length, a low, mirthless laugh curled from his maw.

Call your healer. One who deals with plants, such as I, one with knowledge of their uses and curative properties, should make the decision, not you or myself. I will heed the word of your shaman. Surely she would not refuse this — how could a Vale healer give a valuable resource to another?