![[Image: Herbalist.png]](https://vivariumrpg.com/images/skills/Herbalist.png)
the smell reached her first—smoke, the ghost of old flame curled among bark and dew. it was not the scent of her valley kin. no, this was foreign, sharp and lingering like a spirit refusing to go.
cloud lash turned, herbs still clutched gently in her jaws, and what she saw stole the rhythm from her heart. a man. tall, shadowed. a face of two halves: white and gray, moon and storm. he stood still, a statue among the stones.
she stiffened. the air between them pulled tight like sinew.
he was built like her people—broad in the chest, honed for the steep valleys, for hard winters and long climbs. her eyes darted once to his paws, to his stillness, to his scent again. it did not threaten—not outright—but it unnerved.
still, she was not rude.
the herbs were placed gently upon a patch of moss. her tail gave a single, cautious sway behind her, an offering. she said nothing—he would not understand her tongue—but her eyes remained steady.
nuvts’eyaȟa’,she said softly, placing her paw briefly to her chest, her name. sharadoii-born. she did not step closer, nor back away. she would not yield this place. but neither would she provoke.
the wind stirred between them, rustling the pale flowers at the stone’s edge.