He knelt among his friends of root and wand, amid the dark shadows cast over green leaves and delicate petals, tending to his humble garden.

His companions were the rotund Phlogiston Aphids who cast the surrounding flora in their warm glow, like floating lanterns against the night; in kinship with Ororon, they worked best while the rest of Natlan slumbered.

He bowed his head over the flower beds, speaking to the sprouts that were preparing to emerge from tilled soil, exchanging secrets that the watchful moon and stars were not privy to.

Each of his words was the skip of a stone across a lake, forming ripples of emotion. The Masters of the Night Wind’s hermit could not cast illusions, but his voice and bearing during the night could turned him into an enchanter.

The young man trailed off, in the midst of recounting the day’s events to the infant blooms, and lifted his gaze. Crunching grass blades had alerted him to the presence of someone approaching.

Panic lanced through Ororon, at the prospect of someone encroaching upon his sanctuary—

“Oh,” His faint smile was a rare sight, like a vein of gold hidden in rock. It lifted the corners of his lips, as he gazed up at the person whose shadow now fell over his kneeling form, “It’s you. Did you change your mind about accepting more vegetables?”