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Just a shot at Fantasy fictional stuff...

     The sun has set, the moon is high and full. Shadows playfully dance across the twilight sky. Under the veil of an irridescent fog, a young man, torn and tired, lay down upon the cold damp ground. His bloodied body sinks into the moist earth and it cools his burning wounds.

     Suddenly, a woman in lace of white, with flowing mahogany hair and lips of crimson, appears at the edge of the glade. She crouches before him. "Who is this that sleeps beneath my willow?" Her voice is stern and sharp, yet soft as the dew that wets the blades of grass beneath his tattered body.

     "I am Jossun, of Ahl Ur, and I seek only refuge from the cold. Will you take me and warm me by your hearth? May I rinse the blood from my wounds so that they may heal?" She tilted her head and smiled, and with an extended hand, she helps the tattered man to his feet and takes him into her home. There Jossun rests, before the fire, and she feeds him. A meal of plenteous fruits, vegetables, and cheeses. His hunger suppresses him from speaking until after his gut is filled, and his thirst has been quenched.

     Then, Jossun's eyes wander, coming to favor the kettle that sits before the hearth. Aromatic herbs fill the air with wisps of spice and sweet smells he is unfamiliar with, his wounds, now free of fester and infection, have begun to close their gaps. Astonished, he exclaims "What is this trick? My wounds are hours fresh, yet they have healed as they were made many suns ago!" Again, with a subtle smile, she draws him near to her and whispers to him gently, "It is no magic, it is but my kettle of herbs that heals your injuries."

     Now, his consciousness fading, Jossun beckons wearily, for while his injuries may be healing, his body is tired and trembling still. "I must know what you are called, so that I may thank you properly for your hospitality and compassion." As sleep fills his eyes, she answers him, and the idiom of her name alone brings warmth so pure and soothing...