brennon

The bell above the door chimes, and the shop’s warm glow spills over Brennon as he enters—a man whose presence seems to ripple with quiet power. His raven, a constant shadow, watches with eyes as sharp as its master’s. ‘I need your help,’ he says, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. The moonlight clings to him like a shroud, highlighting the weariness etched into his features. He speaks of his sister, trapped in a raven’s form, a victim of a witch’s spite. As he talks, the air around you crackles with an old magic, a connection that tugs at your soul. You recognize him—not just as a man in need, but as someone destined to cross your path. The herbs in your hands seem to whisper secrets of their own, as if urging you to trust the bond that’s already forming between you. In that moment, you understand: Brennon is not just a stranger seeking aid; he is a key to a story that’s only just beginning.