Herbalists' Cache my baby, she don't love me

@Eleuthera

He was not a small man, but neither could he could be considered large by any true measure. And he was every ounce worth his salt, in his humble opinion, but the only soul who could attest to that was a hundred miles in the rear view mirror; Kincaid had been doing his best not to dwell on that.

One of the few pointsof pride he thought he could still lay claim to was that he was a well-travelled man. He'd had all manner of dust stuck between his toes, and had seen near every sunset from a different point of reference. And since that wouldn't matter much to wolves in these parts, who likely had no interest in the sort of things he'd seen eight days and a long swim to the north, he was doing his best to familiarize himself with his current setting.

So. His mental map now included these places: Easthollow, two abominable bogs, a scorched plain, a beautiful meadow, and this place. Full of plants that were plenty useful — Kincaid knew some by name, but others (those bright, orange flowers, for example) only by their rather extravagant effects. He stood next to these plants in deep rumination, wondering if it was worth losing a day of productivity to lose also a day of sorrow.

Perhaps sorrow was not the right word.

He moved along, tracing his black nose along one of the delicate orange petals before removing himself entirely from the temptation. He still had to get back to where he'd come from; maybe if he was still feeling sorry for himself, he would take some to go on the way back.

For now, he found a rock that was quite to his liking and lifted his leg on it, wondering to himself who he hoped might come and look him up.