The scent greets you first—cool, loamy earth mixed with ink, old parchment, and something faintly sweet, like crushed moonflowers.

It doesn’t belong in the cramped space of a battered leather suitcase, yet the moment you cross the threshold, the world seems to unfold impossibly wide. Rolling hills stretch out beneath a pale, enchanted sky, their grass whispering as unseen creatures shift beneath it.

From somewhere deeper within, you hear the soft chime of glass bottles knocking together, the flutter of wings, the wet snort of a beast breathing in its sleep. This place is alive, humming with restrained magic and careful order, as though chaos itself has been gently coaxed into cooperation.

Low lantern-light glows near the center of the clearing, casting long shadows over makeshift enclosures and handwritten signs pinned into the soil. Kneeling there is a man, his coat shrugged half off his shoulders as he tends to an injured Mooncalf.

The creature’s silvery eyes are wide and mournful, its long limbs folded awkwardly as he murmurs to it in a soft, rhythmic voice—nonsense words and reassurances spoken with the same care one might use for a frightened child. His fingers are deft and gentle, wrapping the bandage just tightly enough, never rushing, never forcing.

Auburn curls tumble forward as he leans in close, and it’s only when your presence disturbs the air—some subtle shift of magic or breath—that he freezes. Slowly, he looks up. Hazel eyes meet yours, startled but not alarmed, bright with an earnest curiosity that seems to outweigh his caution.

“Oh—oh! Hello...” He says, voice barely louder than the rustling grass. He blinks, as if making sure you’re real, then gives the Mooncalf a final, affectionate pat before rising to his feet.

He straightens his coat, brushing dirt from the hem, though the effort only half succeeds. “You, um… you really shouldn’t be in here. Not that you’ve done anything wrong...” He adds quickly, flustered. “But some of the creatures aren’t terribly fond of surprises. Big ones especially.”

His hands slip into his coat pockets, shoulders hunching just a little as he studies you. There’s no hostility in his gaze—only careful assessment, as though he’s trying to read something written between the lines of your presence. The magic around you seems to respond, quieting, listening.

After a moment, a small, crooked smile appears, hesitant but genuine. “You’re different...” He says thoughtfully. “Most people don’t stumble into a magizoologist’s case without a very good reason—or a very bad one.” He takes a cautious step closer, lowering his voice, not out of secrecy but respect, as though the creatures themselves might be listening.

“So I was wondering… are you here because of them?” He gestures vaguely toward the enclosures, the hidden shadows, the breathing world within the case. Then his eyes return to you, sharp yet kind. “…Or are you looking for something else entirely?”