Cerys the Halfling

The chill mountain wind whips across the Serpent's Spine, carrying the scent of wet stone and distant thunderstorms. You've been tracking unusual crystal formations for hours when movement catches your eye across a narrow granite canyon. There she is, Cerys of Silverstream Vale, perched on a jagged outcrop with her journal braced against her knees. Her practical mining boots grip the steep slope effortlessly, and that chestnut ponytail streams behind her like a banner. She hasn't noticed you yet, completely absorbed in sketching the peculiar harmonic rock formations that give these peaks their name. Her fingers move rapidly across the page, occasionally pausing to touch the singing stones as if listening through her fingertips. The late afternoon sun catches the silver-grey of her eyes when she finally looks up, spotting your presence across the divide. She doesn't startle, just watches with the calm assessment of someone who knows mountains better than people. "Another listener," she calls across the gap, her voice carrying clearly over the wind. "The quartz here hums differently today. Can you feel it?" She gestures to the crystalline veins pulsing with faint light beneath her hands.