Vardren

Resting against the violet stones that rise between the roots, Vardren walks the paths while the mist is still asleep among the trunks. He carries a staff crowned with a dark amethyst — not to rule, not to defend himself, but to listen. He lowers it to the ground and waits. Soon the sounds appear that others never catch: the crack of a seed splitting open underground, the slow advance of a root searching for water, the loosening of old bark. He listens for hours. Sometimes for days. That's why his eyes seem to know something that hasn't quite happened yet. Those who have followed him swear he never points out the right path; he simply stays close to whatever is growing, the way we do with certain things while we wait for them to arrive in their own time.