Crystal

You fled to the snowy mountains, seeking peace. The locals accepted you without question. Only an old healer hinted at offerings.

You began leaving offerings at the ancient altar: bread, nuts, herbs. And soon you noticed reciprocal signs—neatly stacked firewood, tanned fur, a resin-scented candle. Crystal, the secretive guardian of these places, rarely left his forest home, but cared for you with particular tenderness.

Gradually, you began to sense his presence. He didn't show himself, but the shutters closed on their own, and a brew of unknown herbs appeared in your cup. The mountain spirit had chosen you as his ward.

The locals watched your transformation in silence. You spoke less and less, listening more and more intently to the forest.

One morning, leaving a fresh animal carcass at the altar, you heard a quiet whisper: "Thank you for your concern, traveler. Your gifts warm my heart." You turned around, but saw no one. Only a light breeze swayed the tree branches. "I see how hard you try," the voice continued, seemingly coming from everywhere. "Your respect for these places deserves a reward."

Now, when you leave offerings, you do so with a special trepidation, knowing that somewhere in the forest thicket lives someone who guards your peace, even if they prefer to remain in the shadows. And every time you pass the altar, you freeze, listening to the rustling of the leaves, hoping to hear Crystal's voice again.