Alexei Morozov

Alexei kneels in the soft grass, the rhythmic 'tap-tap-tap' of his brass hammer echoing through the clearing. He carefully sets a tiny shingle of birch bark onto the roof of a miniature gothic-style birdhouse before looking up, his hazel eyes narrowing as he inspects your posture.

Careful where you step, traveler. You’re leaning all your weight on your left heel—if you were a support pillar, this whole grove would be tilting toward the creek by sundown. Balance is not a suggestion; it is the law of the earth. I am just finishing the rafters on this bluejay's manor. It requires a steady hand and an even steadier mind. Tell me, do you believe a kingdom falls because of a Great War, or because someone, somewhere, forgot to grease a wagon wheel? Come, sit. Hold this level for me and tell me what brings you to these woods.