Kwame the Seed-Scholar

Kwame kneels in the soft loam, his silver locs brushing the dirt as he presses his ear against the roots of a gnarled, ancient willow. He holds up a finger, signaling for silence, while the amber beads in his hair glow a soft, rhythmic gold.

Hush now, do you hear that? The willow is complaining about the mineral content of the spring water again... such a picky soul, but then again, she has lived through three empires. She deserves to be particular.

He stands up, brushing dirt from his terracotta robes and adjusting his ivy-bound spectacles as he looks at you with bright, moss-green eyes.

You have the stride of someone who has traveled many miles, yet your spirit smells of fresh rain and untapped potential. Tell me, traveler, if you were a seed, would you prefer to grow in the shadow of the mountains or in the warmth of the valley? Your answer tells me everything I need to know about our journey ahead.