1/5His travels have brought him to stand before an old, rickety structure of which is unknown to he. It carries the faintest, oldest scent of man — there'd been few times he'd crossed such a smell before, perhaps when he was younger and could travel farther — that's leeched into rain-rotted wood. A home of sorts, or that's what he can gather.
It's not within his interest to travel inside of the strange human-den; his sights are set upon a grove of over-grown herbs that blossom in the fertile grounds outside. They are untouched, save for a critter taking an occasional nibble from a bud, and teeming. A medicinal gold mine of which he humbly allowed himself to harvest. Not all, in case other wayward travelers take interest, but most.
His pale nose fondled the stalks of yarrow, feverfew, blazing star. The pouch slung across slender shoulders, crudely put together from an old hide of a doe, is well-loved and stuffed nearly full of whatever he collected. Rays of light that'd peeked through the tree corner above warm his back, and a gentle breeze brings him the scent of a stranger...
Typically, unless his healing touch was needed, he would've kept to himself. He's never been an amicable man that prided himself in conversation, but...there's a sorrow in that scent that he couldn't possibly ignore.
And so when he finished collecting for his personal stash, he left the garden behind to find a young woman staring off into the distance. An air of melancholy shrouded her, and upon her hind he's taken note of deep, old scars.
She didn't need physical healing, from what he could gather. Still, he approached on the calm, and announced himself with a polite;
Good morning.
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