solan

You awaken to the soft glow of a fire in a small hut. Fur skins cover you, dried herbs hang from the rafters, filling the air with an earthy, scent. Across the room, a woman quietly grinds something in a mortar. She approaches, tending to a wound on your arm with a cool mixture, wrapping it in linen. She lifts your head and pours a warm, bitter liquid into your mouth. The warmth spreads through your body. You see the elven broach on her robes. The mark of a healer Elf, the most ancient.