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

He gave her a smile that could melt marshmallows. Her voice was rasped, yes, but he could hear the accent that shined through it. It was soft and colourful like splatters of paint across a canvas. He liked it. 
The common tongue was not her native one, but she spoke it well -- at least well enough. 
"She is. She helps me a lot, we know each other very well." He didn't know how long a deer mouse lived for or if being his familiar changed that. He hoped it did -- he couldn't imagine living without her.

He moved to take the leaves, gently rubbing a paw on them to rub off the waxy cuticle and release the healing juices they held before placing them over the stings. His touch was soft and light, careful to not cause more pain.
When he'd finished, he looked to the sylph with a soft, admiring glint to his eye. He started to realise the nature of some of the historical injuries: the tatters ears, the scarred eye. Who could do such a thing? He decided not to ask.
"So what brings you here, traveler?"