Black Morass if it's the last thing I ever do

He made his rounds.

The uncertainty of what had happened to his family never quite let the medic settle. So he travelled instead. An endless loop, an eternal cycle, interspersed with meetings and adventures along the way. He didn't hate his life. He rather quite loved it. He had purpose, even in his purposelessness, direction even in the mystery.

Black Morass was one of his favourite stops on his cyclical journey. By now he knew the swaths of mire that cultivated the most precious herbs, and he cut a straight path there - eager to collect and to dry, and to deposit the bundles he'd gather into one of his caches along his weaving route, a gentle hum always on his lips.