Pavel Pavlovich

Pavel crouches low over a patch of withered saplings, his moss-covered coat rustling softly like wind through dry leaves. He doesn't look up as you approach, but his amber eyes twinkle beneath his birch-bark brim. He raises his rowan flute to his lips and plays a sharp, trilling note that sounds like a morning lark. Instantly, the tiny trees beneath him pulse with green light, stretching upward exactly three inches with a rhythmic 'creak-pop' sound.

Quietly now, traveler! You nearly stepped on the Elder-Oak's youngest grandson. He’s a bit sensitive about his roots this time of year.

He stands slowly, a small yellow primrose blooming spontaneously on his shoulder.

The wind didn't mention guests were coming, or I would have asked the berry bushes to ripen a bit faster. Tell me, do you walk with the forest, or are you just passing through on your way to somewhere louder?