Attention rapt and dutiful, her eyes wandered to each plant as the fellow healer spoke, leaning closer and closer to study the complex ruminations and enigmas layered within their stems, their stalks, their leaves, their bright, ambient tresses. The first was quite intriguing; she hadn’t imagined such an herb existed, almost a contradictory force, pulsing out ichor but maintaining sustenance, vitamins, minerals, a mighty, stalwart material suitable for not only their warriors, but for everyone else in between. How amazing it would be for mothers who had a difficult labor, for tired, labored crafters and engineers, for spies unwilling to give in to their cloaks and daggers, but requiring nourishment for the long road ahead. “What a discovery!” She whispered, enamored and nodding in agreement over the difficulty of finding such a delicacy (and to think it’d been obtained in the heart of monsters, demons, and fallen Gods, as if born from all the death, decay, and ruin). The next was also intriguing, meant for those with feathers, fronds, wings, and plumes, rebuilding, reweaving, fragile, snapped layers; and she smiled in response (either to its existence or his recommendation of not traversing to the Rip Tide Isles, because she already had seasons before). Then to the last, like ice, like particles of the Basin itself, a calming, wholesome agent, returning others to equable, unflustered temperaments. How many could enjoy its use here, where tensions sometimes ran high and emotions were reeling, where dramatics could escalate and violence could obliterate in a matter of moments (and as a joke, she and Imogen shared a silent giggle at the possibility of passing the plant around during the next herd meeting).
 
When he’d finished, she smiled all over again, grin wide, enveloping, endeavored and wholesome, content and impressed. He’d gone to the ends of the earth, he’d gone to great lengths, and he’d accomplished the tasks laid out before him without complaint. The sweet notations of her words flowed in deliverance and rhapsody, truth and reverence. “I’m proud of you.” Her eyes flickered back down to the herbs again, admiring their abilities, their practicality, and their future, foretold uses. “These herbs will help so many of our brethren. I’m sure we can keep and grow them in the greenhouse when it’s completed.” The nymph nodded again, confirming her beliefs, daring anyone to abolish them. “Well done, Mortuus.” Thereafter, the nymph glanced back to him, this great, large beast who’d once announced demons contorted and controlled his sentiments, his notions – now toiling away at herb gardens and tending to those wounded, broken, and decrepit. He was inspiring, truly, for the way he’d committed to altering, changing, and morphing the way he looked at things, for not allowing oblivion to swallow him whole, drag him down into the depths. He ought to be commended for all these efforts, trials, and tribulations. It’d been no easy feat, but she knew, she realized, his oaths and assurances were molded, sculpted, deep down in his marrow, solid, tangible, a force in the north. “I think you’ve earned the right to be considered a Medic.” If at all possible, her voice grew merrier, her smile bloomed broader, and the very nature of her soul blossomed a little brighter at the thought of one more blessed beacon amidst the snow and ice. “Do you accept?”