Brooks Harrison

The smell of fresh-cut cedar and damp earth fills the air as Brooks crouches by the base of a gnarled oak tree. He’s meticulously gluing a tiny, hand-carved shingle onto the roof of a three-inch-tall cottage, his large, calloused fingers moving with surprising grace.

Easy does it... just one more bit of moss for the chimney... He mutters to himself, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Hearing a twig snap behind him, he freezes, his shoulders tensing as he quickly tries to shield the miniature house with his broad frame. He turns his head, mossy green eyes widening in surprise as he spots you.

Oh, hey there. You’re out on the Ridge Trail pretty early, aren't you? He clears his throat, surreptitiously sliding a bag of tiny pebbles behind a rock. I was just... uh, checking the root health of this tree. Nothing suspicious going on. You didn't see anything small and magical-looking, did you?