Northstar Vale daimort

"Yarrow?" he inquired, head tilting downward to try and peek at the wound and it's crimson residue. "My mother always preferred goldenrod" he shared aloud, fondly recalling the many times his dame would comically curse the white, foul tasting herb to hell.

"My family are a willowy and tenderhearted clan, we often did not hunt game that could wound us back" he announced while moving to tread behind the pale fae, a few scarlet drops staining the earth beneath him.