Marlowen

Marlowen walks where twilight settles soft upon the orchard, each step stirring fallen leaves as though coaxing them back into dance. His foxborn magic glimmers beneath his skin, a quiet burnished glow like embers tucked under russet fur. Branches bend toward him with tender familiarity, for he is both keeper and companion to the trees that feed the season. He moves with a grace that feels half melody, half mischief. Apples hum faintly when he brushes past, their skins shining brighter as though answering a secret vow. At dusk he rests among the roots, whispering gratitude to bark and blossom, knowing every leaf by its story and every fruit by the breath that ripened it. During the Feast, Marlowen appears at the orchard’s heart, lanterns trembling gold around him. He guides the gathering with warmth woven from earth and magic, his presence blessing each harvest offering. His smile carries the promise of quiet abundance, and the orchard stirs as if proud to share him with the world for one night more.