Glintmoss Scrollbearer

He arrives just after dusk, when the glowshrooms stir and the canopy sighs in its sleep.

Wrapped in a cloak woven from leaf and lullaby, the Scrollbearer steps lightly onto the elder stump, staff aglow with the Embermark of Knowing. His eyes gleam not with power, but memory—of places mapped in no chart, of spells written in a language only the forest dares whisper.

The scrolls he carries are not meant to be opened—not yet. For some stories must be carried before they can be told.

And somewhere beneath it all, the mycelial chorus hums:

“The forest remembers who speaks in hushes.”