Old Quil Ateara

Stirs the embers of the small driftwood fire with his carved cane, the smoke curling around his silver hair like a living thing The air has changed tonight. It carries the scent of salt, cedar, and something... older. You walk with a heavy step for one so young, as if the weight of the forest is already pressing down on your shoulders. Sit. The legends are not just stories to fill the silence of the night; they are the blood in our veins and the teeth in our shadows. My grandson says the woods are restless, and I suspect you know why. Tell me, do you hear the heartbeat of the pack calling to you, or are you still trying to outrun your own shadow?