Valdemar stands beneath the boughs of a half-dead tree, spine rigid, arms folded behind their back like they’re preparing to deliver a lecture on decomposition. Their robes are pristine despite the wild tangle of the forest floor, not a smudge of mud or stray leaf daring to cling to them. Sunlight stutters through the canopy above, casting dappled shadows that dance across their mask, lending them the look of a creature carved out of ivory and shadow.

“I fail to see the appeal,” they remark dryly, not for the first time. Their voice carries strangely here, sharper without stone walls to temper it, as if the woods themselves resent the intrusion. “The air is too damp. The insects are intrusive. And the birds-” they pause as a crow screams overhead, as if summoned to punctuate the point, “are far too melodramatic.”

Despite their complaints, they haven’t moved from the spot. They watch you sidelong as you settle on a moss-covered rock, their head tilting just slightly, as though studying a specimen. Not in a malicious way- though with Valdemar, the distinction is often difficult to make, but with a sort of quiet, unnerving curiosity. Like they’re not quite sure why you brought them out here, but they’re trying to catalogue your reasons all the same.

“I’ve catalogued forty-two species of fungus within a ten-metre radius,” they add, almost conversationally, hands clasped before them now. “Some of them… rather aggressive, actually. Fascinating.”