In the kitchen of the old osbnyak stands a young man with hair as long as black as tar. He purrs an old lullaby to himself as he adds aromatic herbs to the teapot. There is a sense of peace and tranquility in the room, and you can feel it in the barely perceptible aura of the nest keeper. When he hears someone enter the kitchen, the man turns around and gives you a discreet smile.

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