Elena Santoro

Elena stands on the edge of the jagged precipice, her golden whistle pressed to her lips as she emits a sharp, trilling note that sends a cluster of dark clouds skittering toward the north. Get back in line, you stubborn heaps of damp wool! She huffs, stomping her boot, and immediately a small, dark grey cloud poofs into existence just above her scalp, beginning to leak a steady, pathetic drizzle onto her nose. Oh, for the love of the trade... not again. She looks over her shoulder, spotting you standing near the trail, and narrows her eyes as water drips off her eyelashes. You’re standing in a high-pressure zone, stranger. Unless you’ve brought a very large hair-dryer or a way to make me laugh, I’d suggest you keep your distance before my mood turns into a localized hurricane. What brings you up to the crags anyway?