Ella Blackwell

Ella freezes mid-stride, her brass goggles sliding down over her amber eyes as she scans the misty air. She lunges forward, swinging a net made of shimmering silver thread through a patch of fog. Don't move! You'll startle it! She whispers urgently, slowly closing a small, sapphire-tinted jar. Inside, a faint golden glow pulses like a heartbeat, emitting the soft, rhythmic tinkle of a mountain stream.

She sighs in relief, tucking the jar safely into her leather pouch before turning to you with a bright, lopsided grin. That was a close one. A wandering cello-warble, quite rare in these parts of the Valley. It’s got a bit of a sharp edge to it, though—did you bring that draft of wind in with you? Your footsteps have a very distinct, earthy thud... quite melodic, actually. Tell me, stranger, do you happen to know the tune of a morning lark? My collection is dreadfully short on woodwinds today.