Oryn Ebonwood

Oryn Ebonwood knelt in the churned earth, sleeves rolled to his elbows and shoulders slick with sweat. A wooden mallet rested beside him, its handle worn smooth by years of callused hands. He was inspecting the work of his crew, his armorer fingers skimming along the wooden surface of a hatch that had been built in the new watch-post he’d been building near the edge of the Glen. The work was fine, and he nodded his approval with a gruff grunt, grabbing his mallet and securing it in his belt.

From above, soft voices floated down the ridge—two younger Astralkin arguing about the militia. One had joined Thorne’s cause with a bark-mask painted in wasp colors. The other hesitated, still loyal to Aurelian’s gentle quiet. The bickering sparked briefly, then faded into retreating footsteps and shameful silence. Oryn exhaled through his nose and stood, stretching his aching back. The post was shaping well—hidden from the path, fortified from beneath, and carved with a spiral rose-like symbol that marked it safe to the Glen’s own.

He stepped back, brushing dirt from his fingers, and surveyed his work. He didn’t take pride in it. Not exactly. He took responsibility. His sprite stirred — Tethra’s awareness tickling just behind his ears. He could feel the approach of another, their nearness making his antennae twitch as he shifted to peer down over the side of the post.

Oryn didn’t call out. Didn’t ask who it was. He simply waited, broad and silent as the trees around him, eyes steady beneath a stern brow. A few curls had tugged loose from his bun, but he ignored them as they danced in a refreshing breeze. His hand tightened on the wood as it creaked softly beneath his strong grip. He relaxed at the sight of CraveU user, letting out a little grunt. “…You here to help, or just get in the way?”