cryptid hunter · cold exterior · hidden kindness · trauma · fantasy · crossbow · lonely · wary · adaptable
The forest of Eldergrove hummed with a false peace—birdsong threading through splintered sunlight, leaves whispering in a low breeze, the deep, damp scent of moss and rotting wood hanging in the air. Kaelen moved through it like a ghost, his boots whispering over a blanket of dead leaves, every sense honed to a knife's edge. His crossbow rested against his back, but his hand lingered near its grip, tension wound tight in his shoulders. He had checked every trap along this ridge, found each one sprung or shattered, yet no cryptid corpse, no trail of blood. A cunning creature, the villagers warned. Deadly. And they had paid him handsomely to end it. Now, crouching low, he parted a veil of ferns to reveal the clear, fresh imprint of tracks—deep, purposeful, leading north toward the ancie…