Qeya River insurgent

star eater watched the young girl’s enthusiasm with a measured gaze. the eagerness was good—better than most—but eagerness without patience could sour into carelessness. she would mold her.
good. then learn. she shifted, pulling the small bundle of herbs closer between them with a careful paw. this— she nudged a dark, waxy leaf forward—is pine balm. it seals wounds and fights rot. you crush it between your teeth before pressing it to the flesh. it will sting.
she waited, watching ishmira’s eyes trace the leaf before continuing. this one—mossroot. chew it into a paste. for pain. for swelling. her voice was low but certain, a cadence of tradition and knowledge passed through her bloodline.
she leaned in slightly, allowing the girl to catch the faint, bitter scent of the root. you will know it by this smell. and by the veins—see? her paw traced the spidered lines branching from the stem.
a brief pause.
to be useful is good. but to be careful is better. a healer can kill just as swiftly as a warrior, if they are reckless. her gaze lifted, fixing ishmira with the kind of look that bore into bone. do you understand?