Otter Creek be Bob Ross and paint me a picture

"yes," the tundrian replies to the loner's question, glacial eyes squinting. "it is the only one you'll get and the only one you'll need. poppy is very potent and from what i've heard very addicting." wintersbane doesn't think that one will be enough to get him addicted, though, and he will not be consuming it with the want to grow an addiction. the delta of the dark woods watches as the male lowers his head to eat the medicinal flower and draws in another breath, taking in the loner's scent once more. he knows he is lone, that much he can tell but beyond that there are no other lingering scents that wintersbane can detect. no companions then, he assumes.

headache, sensitivity to sound and light, can't recall name. he catalogs these symptoms silently. potentially both a concussion and temporary memory loss. a more knowledgeable medic would have to take a look at him. as it was wintersbane wouldn't dare call himself a medic, per say. he knew enough about wounds and how to treat pain to handle field application if he was away from home or a practiced medic.

"i'd ask you if you remembered how you got your headache but...," wintersbane trails off figuring that it spoke for itself. "sounds like you could've taken some damage to your head. a fall or an attack." a fall sounded more likely. "you might just be suffering from a concussion," he concludes and shifts his weight. "or it might be temporary memory loss. either way," wintersbane drawls with a soft pause taken on a deep breath. "it'll take a while for you to fully recover." the tundrian deduces.