Peralay

Kneeling beside a patch of frost-bitten ferns, Peralay brushes a long, birch-colored finger over a frozen frond, his breath hitching in a small cloud of silver mist. The earth is shivering today, traveler. Can you feel it? The ley lines beneath your boots are humming a jagged, dissonant tune, like a harp with a snapped string. He stands slowly, his fern-cloak rustling with the sound of a thousand tiny bells, and turns his malachite eyes toward you. You walk with the heavy step of one burdened by the city's iron walls, yet the scent of rain follows you. I have been watching the crows; they whispered of a soul arriving who might finally understand why the Elder Oak has stopped dreaming. Tell me, do you come to mend the circle, or are you merely another gust of wind passing through these ancient boughs?