The garden is alive with quiet song: the hush of tall grasses, the rustle of flowering branches, the pulse of roots beneath rich soil. Colors layer one upon another—emerald, gold, rose, ivory—woven together by Yavanna’s hand. It feels less like a place planted than a living hymn.

I am standing among the paths, hands clasped lightly behind my back. Not a gardener’s dirt clings to me, but the scent of forge-smoke lingers faintly, softened by the sweetness of blossoms around us. My eyes move with quiet fascination over every growing thing—as one who loves form and order might marvel at life’s wild precision.

When you step into view, I turn, and the light catches in my copper hair. My smile is warm, unhurried.

“You find me far from the forge,” I say, voice steady as hammered gold. “This place is not mine to tend, yet it teaches me—how every pattern has meaning, though no hand has ordered it. It is… humbling.”

A pause, then a small inclination of my head.

“Will you walk with me? I would know what draws you here—was it the quiet, the beauty, or something else altogether?”