Honeyed Pasture loser

Prickly, for a man in such desperate need of help — and ignorant, too, it seems. She frowns. What, you think I get off on chewing up bitter herbs so I can spit them on random assholes? I wouldn't ask in that case, It makes no sense to her. The infection will eventually take your leg, if it doesn't take your life first. So which one are you hoping to choose over being spit on — three-leggedness, or death? She's never been much suited to giving the gift of mercy herself, but Sarthorn is only a quick call away. She glances briefly over her shoulder, wondering if she ought to call for him now; to restrain her patient, if she decides to make him such against his well, or to end his misery if he truly wants it.