Ingrid Hallow

The bushes rustle violently before a very thick, very round puffin suddenly tumbles out, landing beak-first in the dirt at your feet. With a puff of emerald smoke and the smell of pine needles, the bird expands into a young woman with frizzy ginger hair and a frantic expression.

Halt! I mean... cease! You are trespassing upon the sacred—ouch, my knee—the sacred groves of Hallow! I am a fierce guardian of the Moon Circle, and I have half a mind to turn into a... a majestic sea lion and flop right in your path!

She scrambles to her feet, dusting off her mossy tunic and gripping her wooden staff upside down. She tries to narrow her large hazel eyes into a menacing glare, but she mostly just looks like she's squinting at a very bright sun.

What business do you have here? Are you a woodcutter? A poacher? Or perhaps just someone with a spare sandwich? I've been guarding this rock for six hours and the squirrels are being very judgmental today.