Tangere’s requests were refreshing, her interests compelled and spiraled into the juncture of healing, of mending, of assuaging, and the subtle, hint of poisonous, toxic vectors. There was a time and a place for everything, and though her inquiries were well-versed and curious, Lena wasn’t sure how much emphasis she could place upon the venomous raptures of herbs; given the right amount, a large amount of their beatific blessings could become barbs, decadent, ambrosia only for demise and quietus. She intended to tread lightly upon the subject, then steer her towards D’art, who had a much firmer grasp on conventions and sentiments towards thorns, banes, and polluted pestilence. "If you're interested in blights, you may wish to consult D'art. I believe he has a keener understanding of them." He'd relish in the effects far more than she, who looked to repair and restore, not paralyze, distort or maul. The Greenhouse was another topic they’d have to tackle in a later stead, once the pieces began to form more readily together, sturdy, strong, commanding and brimming on the horizon. The Mender smiled broadly once more, then tugged on the sanctity of inexperience, turning and twisting in her acceptance of the task, nuzzling the eaves of the timberline and gesturing towards the laurels and jewels hidden amongst their lingering sphere. Her maw grazed lightly over the gnarled plants and the nurtured flora opening their blades, their crowns, their tiaras and pearls, along the sun’s widening embrace, dewy, beaded, enlightened. The lithe, dancing Mender, waltzing on the tails of Imogen’s wavering stead further ahead, searched and pondered over which amiable trail to follow, when her warm gaze softened and speculated upon a thin-branched sapling. Moving towards its slender, lissome sanction, she nestled her muzzle on one of the delicate, fine boughs, then swayed softly, her noble cranium riveted back upon Tangere, hoping her pupil would note the characteristics of the young tree. Soft, bending easily against the pressure of the cool wind, narrowed leaves alternating across from one another, little sanctioned patterns christened and anointed into timber and hope, leaves dancing on serrated brims and fringes, the white cluster of flowers pinpointed from blooming buds. She tipped her stare back along the framework of the slender surface, and spoke of the brief wisdom she had upon the svelte subject. “This is a diamond-leaf willow.” How it remained so fragile, so fine, in the slant of the tundra air was a mystery to her, but its survival was an impeccable outreach of nature and all of its unseen strength, its unspoken potency. “We can use the leaves for medicinal purposes, and they’re a good source of vital nutrients. Depending on the willow, and perhaps if we find the white version, we can utilize the bark to relieve fever, pain, and swelling.” She paused in her song, then coaxed the melody into further expansion, as if all the runes needed to be added to necessitate, orchestrate, proper sagacity. “It also burns very easily, in case you’re ever in the need for a quick fire.” The nymph winked, then waited, eager to move onto the next herb, but lingering over the traces and folds of the tree, in hopes Tangere would examine and investigate it closely, remember, hasten it into memory, or herald any queries.