She isn't waiting for you to die anymore. She's decided to help.
It used to just hide your shoes. Now it wears your mother's face.
The pond took the geese first. Nobody noticed until it took something that could scream.
The cellar's been quiet for years. That should have been the warning, not the comfort.
The itch on your neck isn't a bug bite. It's an invitation you already accepted.
No potion or salve leaves Lyreleaf without passing through Nib Glasswick's kiln first -- the gnome glassblower whose vials and bottles quietly keep the village's famous alchemy intact all the way to market.
Every satchel, boot, and saddle in Lyreleaf passes through Fennig Barkhollow's tannery -- the gnome craftsman whose patient, oak-bark leather has outlasted three decades of travelers on the Saltspray Swamp road.
No throne, no garrison, no seal of its own -- just a halfling elder named Wendell Longbarrow, who has kept Lyreleaf self-governed and safely beneath Brightcrown's notice for six careful years.
Whenever a rare bloom opens or an alchemist perfects a new potion, Lyreleaf celebrates within a day -- because gnome shopkeeper Garland Ninebells already has the lanterns, ribbon, and favors ready to go.
At the edge of Lyreleaf where the road turns to mist and swamp, halfling warden Tilly Marrowgate has spent eleven years making sure every cart bound for Saltspray Swamp is exactly what it claims to be.
See him before the planting, and the harvest holds. Greenbranch has never once been wrong about it.
The fishing gets worse past a certain bend. Baitcast Wharf learned, the hard way, to turn the boat around.