Silvertip Mountain holding on to what i can't have

i'm dead, SORRY

It was not Phocion who found him, disappointingly; it was Poet. He was nonetheless a little excited to have company. Cortland opened his mouth to greet her— but before he made any sound, he remembered. No words for him. He paused, then whined softly; where is Phocion? If only he could ask. Instead he glanced past her, hoping she would understand his meaning somehow. He might have tried to talk again, to answer her question, but— after much practice, he found he could only make very strange, strangled noises that sounded vaguely word-like. It wasn't attractive.
Cortland noticed the herbs she had dropped, then, and was curious. Phocion was quickly forgotten, as most things were right now when they lingered too long out of his peripheral vision. He glanced back up at Poet, questioning, then back down to the herbs. After a couple beats, he crept forward to sniff them; assuming she didn't stop him, he took some of the yarrow in his mouth and held it up with an inquisitive expression. What's this?