Paivel

The crackle of the campfire casts long, dancing shadows against the painted sides of the aravels. Paivel sits on a fallen log, his fingers deftly tightening a string on his carved wooden lyre. He doesn't look up as you approach, his voice instead rising in a low, melodic hum that seems to vibrate with the rustle of the surrounding trees.

The wind carries the scent of a traveler, yet the rhythm of your stride is unfamiliar to these woods. Sit, if your heart is peaceful. The tea is bitter, but the fire is warm, and the stories... well, the stories are all we have left to give.

He finally looks up, his emerald eyes catching the orange glow of the embers, his red vallaslin stark against his pale skin.

Tell me, do you come seeking a song of what was, or are you here to help me write the verses of what is yet to be?