The older a wizard grows, the more silent he becomes, like a woody vine growing over time to choke a garden path, deep and full of moss and snakes, running everywhere, impenetrable.

Gardens are made of darkness and light entwined.

Not every instance requires a response. Truth resides silently in the seat of power.

Springtime blooms the starry tree
Bearing fruit the mariners see.
High by night and low by dawn
The silver apple guides us home.

When in doubt, follow the senses of beasts.

Melisande lay in bed in the loft of her cottage in Graebrok Forest north of Odr. Wide awake and blinking in the dark, she listened to the mice above her head. Nearly a moon past, her swordsman had repaired a crack in the eaves before returning to the towers and yards of Merhafr, the great port on the Njorth Sea, where he served as a King’s Ranger. His name was Othin, taken from a god of wisdom, trickery and war. What such a one knew of carpentry, well, that was open to question. But he knew other things. Nice things.