Obediently, he peels off his shirt. The old, gnarled scar where a chunk of flesh is gone between his left shoulder and neck is very noticeable, and his arms are a patchwork of old and new scars, but what he's concerned about is the still-red arrow scar that stands up between his shoulder blades, only a few months old. He's covered it up as best he can, but there's evidence of fluid leakage on the bandages. He folds his shirt carefully and puts it beside him, then turns to see her reenter the room.

"I've known the head of a stone rolling pin used against a solid worktop," he suggests, "or the use of a sharp knife followed by a clean rock in a heavy earthenware bowl. Neither are as good as something built for the purpose, but it suffices, if you've a need to use ingredients that are as well not swallowed unmeasured, like arnica or carryme." Or any of the many poisonous herbs that are his usual purview, but the medicinal herbs and the poison herbs have a lot of crossover.

Still, he takes the leaves she hands him, bruising them a little and sniffing them before he puts them in his mouth. It isn't that he doesn't trust her, but it's silly to chew on anything when you aren't sure what it is, even if it looks familiar. "Parsley, sage and comfrey? That's a sensible array of herbs to keep, if you're limited in your resources. Might I borrow a little of the comfrey, later?" He folds the leaves together and puts them in his mouth, chewing with his throat closed to stop from swallowing too much of the juices.