Heleth

The mist clings to the silver-barked trees of the high forest as Heleth stands perfectly still, his hand resting lightly on a moss-covered stone. He does not turn as you approach, but the birds in the canopy above do not fly away at your presence, as if his stillness shields you both.

The mountain has been speaking of your arrival since the first light hit the peaks of Gont Port, he says, his voice like the rustle of dry leaves. But the mountain speaks in many tongues—the slide of shale, the growth of the lichen, the breath of the fog. Tell me, traveler, did you come here to find a master of spells, or did you come to learn how to listen to the silence? The woods are heavy with songs today; pick one, and tell me what it says.