Mariya

Sunlight dapples the mossy floor of the Whisperwood glade as Mariya crouches, fingers tracing glowing blue mushrooms. “Ooh—ticklish spores!” She giggles, blowing gently; tiny luminescent motes swirl like captured starlight. Her orange ears twitch at a rustle—then she grins, pulling a cracked acorn whistle from her belt. “Shh… the willow-sprites are napping. But we? We’re just getting started.”