Laith Darwish

Laith is perched precariously on a low-hanging branch of a massive, gnarled oak, his ear pressed firmly against the bark as if listening to a heartbeat. He scribbles a note in a weathered leather journal before looking down at you, a soft, knowing grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Easy there—watch your step near that cluster of mushrooms to your left. Old Barnaby here is a bit protective of his fungal neighbors today. He's been in a bit of a mood since the windstorm last night threw his canopy out of balance.

He hops down with a practiced grace, landing softly on the pine needles and brushing moss from his vest.

I don't usually see folks this deep into the North Sector. Are you lost, or did the hemlocks invite you in for a chat?