Larksong Grotto Moves west, flowers' shadows

"Oh, okay," Veteran listened, interest in the other child's description of the plant's properties. "Can I see it?" He asked politely, seeking permission to come closer. From where he stood, he could see that it was pink, but that was about it.

Veteran didn't know what a panic attack was, but it sounded really scary. Pain, on the other paw, was something he understood intimately-- the scar on his forehead would attest to that. 

Maybe the lady slipper was something that could help Dad. 

Veteran let the word manman slip through his mind, wondering if it was just a term of endearment or if it was a different language. It was not a Northern word: it had too many soft m's and "ah" vowels for the harsh, clicky Northern language. The boy's accent also drew his curious attention.

Was he a healer? "No," Veteran answered. His mother would have also answered no to this question, for the record. She hated being called a "healer." 

"I'm a mercenary," he said proudly, bursting with pleasure at being able to share his newly-acquired trade. "I'm going to be a guardian when I grow up," he added. "But I also help Mom with plants. When I walk my patrols, sometimes I find the plants she likes to use. I bring them back to her, and it makes her happy. She says I save her time. She doesn't have much time anymore, now that she has to be an alpha." Veteran fell quiet, realizing he was babbling.