Northstar Vale it's the smell of schizophrenia

Lecter straightened, listening. So she was in command of the place, and the shadow also, though he could not commend a creature with such foolishness that he would rip apart plants that posed no threat to him, no threat to any creature; sage was not poisonous. Dog, he longed to correct, not cur, but he wisely held his tongue.

The Vale woman displayed a sudden interest in the fact that he was a healer; the witch dipped his head once in answer to her question. He was not merely the resident bloodstained physician to Fox's wolves; he was a spiritual mentor, one who could slay with herbs as well as heal, but he saw no reason to tell her this.

I have known the world of healing since I was young, the shaman muttered, a faint pride colouring his words; as she could see plainly, Lecter was no longer young, and so the allusion to his years of experience was concrete.

Of what concern is it to you? he demanded, tone filled with ice that she should change the empty flapping of her lips so suddenly.