The sound of running water fills the garden. As you walk on a pathway of flagstone, a tiny creek burbles over round stones to your right. To your left, a fountain gurgles to itself, accompanied by the hoarse croak of a moss-green mortog. Ahead, the low, sweeping branches of a weeping willow curtain off a small area.

You draw back the branches to find an orange lupess with fire-like markings sitting at the base of the tree. Her eyes are closed, as if deep in meditation. After a long moment, she opens them slowly.

Greetings, she says. Please excuse my rudeness – I was listening to the water. Her voice sounds friendly, but there is a layer of sadness under the words. My name is Brynnfyre, she continues, but you may call me Brynn. And you are?

guest, you reply.

Brynn dips her head in a sort of half-bow. A pleasure to meet you, guest.