Herbalists' Cache iii. whispering woods of wild and lurid dreams

Over-long, shredded ears - the product of her late husband's violence - twitched curiously as a name was supplied. 

"Myr'o," she whispered in imitation, the best reproduction of the name that Elve could make. Her accent sounded guttural and primitive in comparison to his rich, deep tones. Her voice was husky, raspy - exotic in that her words seemed clipped or half-swallowed. Sherigrim's words flowed together musically, so graceful that she sometimes had to reflect upon the river of conversation to decipher it. She felt heated embarrassment settle under her skin. Her command of the common tongue was not as extensive as some of the Sami and she felt clumsy next to the Faery. 

"Enc'ant-ing," she supplied, the word drawled slowly in her odd lilt. She was not certain it was a correct translation but the sweep of her muzzle as she pointed to the rodent clearly indicated what she referred to. 

Elve's ocean eyes slid to the leaves at his request, trying to determine if it was a ploy of some kind. One could never be too careful. Yet, she could find no dangers in his kindly offer. 

Unable to find any words, the healer merely turned and rummaged through her otter-skin medicine bag for the pile of leaves. 

Gesturing for Sherigrim to move closer, she placed the leaves between them and watched silently as he began to work - trying to ignore the sparks beneath her flesh as he occasionally brushed against her. 

"T'ank you," she whispered shyly as he worked, gaze directed carefully at her paws.