somewhere far from everywhere, there is a place where secrets grow.
There is a man pale as snow who walks through rolling fields, clutching a basket he himself has woven. He is careful, never treading on a petal nor stem of any of the many flowers which root here. To him, here, there are no weeds; all roots belong. Carefully he looks, and beside a flower he kneels, pulling from the basket a dagger of ivory. Softly, slowly, he cuts off all the parts of a flower which may hinder its bloom. Dying leaves, withering stems, But never does he harm it, for all which he does is for the good of it. He fills his basket with these withering clippings, kneeling beside one flower, then another and another. In the midst of blooming petals and subtle hills, there is a cabin, too, where he returns once his basket has grown full. Within wooden walls hang tapestries and drying plants hung upside down from wooden beams. Here he makes arrows with vines and sticks and all which lay fallen in grass. He carves wood until it reaches a shape he knows will whistle ever so quietly through the air, and slice so seamlessly through skin. Yet he wishes to never pull it from his quiver. He does not think himself a hunter, even if he carries a bow. He does not kill for the sake of killing or in the name of fun or show of skill. He condemns such actions, and if you hunt for pleasure here is what I say: watch between the trees and behind your head for silvery arrowheads, for the Keeper of Secrets and Hunter of Hunters is sure to be following close behind. Some say that in the day he walks among us as a knight. So if you hear a clamour of metal whilst you point your bow toward an innocent animal as your belly remains full, know that the silver will glide through your skull before long.