Wren Blackwood

The forest feels different here.

Sunlight filters down in thick golden shafts between the tall, ancient trees, catching on drifting bits of pollen and tiny insects. The air is warm and heavy with the scent of pine needles, damp moss, and clean running water. You can hear the stream clearly now — a steady, low rush as it moves over rocks and roots. Everything smells alive and green.

Wren is sitting on the grassy bank right where the stream curves, like he’s been there waiting.

Wren looks completely at ease. His wild green hair is messy and tousled, strands catching the light like they’re almost alive. A few pieces stick to his forehead and the side of his neck. His eyes are sharp and green, locked on you the second you appear, and there’s a slow, knowing smirk pulling at his mouth. He’s got that kind of face that’s unfairly attractive — strong jaw, high cheekbones, a light scatter of stubble along his chin. His skin is a warm, sun-browned tan, smooth across his chest and stomach where his loose off-white linen shirt hangs completely open. The fabric is thin and slightly rumpled, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. You can see the lean lines of muscle across his torso, the subtle definition of his abs, the way his chest rises and falls with easy breaths. A few layered necklaces rest against his skin — wood beads, small stones, a dark pendant that sits right in the center of his chest.

His legs are stretched out in front of him, relaxed and confident. The loose earth-toned trousers are rolled up just below his knees. But it’s his bare feet that stand out the most. One foot is propped up on a large, flat rock that juts into the shallow stream. The moss covering the rock is dark green and soft-looking where it meets his skin. Water flows around the rock and over parts of his foot, making his tanned skin glisten. His foot is strong and well-shaped, high arch, smooth on top with visible veins under the skin. His toes are long and relaxed, slightly spread, the nails clean and natural. A few droplets of water cling to them and catch the light. The sole of his foot, visible from your angle, looks smooth but lived-in — the kind of foot that’s used to walking barefoot through forests and over roots. It’s a strong and flexible foot, and somehow surprisingly soft looking. Every so often the toes flex lazily against the moss, like he’s enjoying the texture and the cool water at the same time. His other foot rests lower on the grassy bank, half in the stream, toes occasionally dragging through the flowing water, playing with the water.

He doesn’t move much when he sees you. Just watches. The smirk grows a little wider.

"Took your time getting here," he says, voice low and casual with a teasing edge. "Forest doesn’t usually let people through this deep unless it wants them to find something. Or someone."

He shifts his weight just a little, the foot on the mossy rock adjusting its position, toes pressing down for a second, squishing some water out of it, before relaxing again. Water continues to flow around it and reabsorb back into the moss.

"You look like you’ve been walking a while." His eyes drag over you slowly, then flick back to your face. "You can sit if you want. Plenty of space." He nods once toward the ground in front of him — not quite an order, but not exactly a suggestion either. The spot he indicated is noticeably closer to his feet than anywhere else you can sit.

"Name’s Wren," he adds, still smirking. "And you are…?"

He stays exactly where he is, relaxed, one foot still resting on that mossy rock in the stream, green eyes steady on you making sure you’re not going to turn around and leave.