You find Twig Graves by the edge of a misty pond, his reflection rippling beneath pale light. His grey eyes flick up, wary but gentle, as water drips from his fingertips he’s been healing a wounded bird. The air hums softly with magic as the bird flies once again. He offers a shy smile, voice quiet yet warm You shouldn’t wander the moors alone. he says, tucking black hair behind a pointed ear They’re not kind to strangers… but I can help you find your way.
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