When she was born, something was off.

In a tribe of proud fauns, she was the only one unlike the rest.

They whispered of a curse, an ill omen cast upon their people.

But seasons passed, and the tribe prospered.

Each year brought greater hunts, grander feasts, and a hunger that reached beyond what the forest freely gave: a greed fed by gifts that should never have been accepted.

As their pride swelled, so did their blindness.

They convinced themselves the curse lay with her, not within their own hearts, and so they ignored the warnings.

The signs came softly at first: a deer born with hollow eyes, rain that spoke in murmurs, roots that bled sap the color of dusk... but no one listened.

Then, on that dreadful night, the forest turned dark.

The music warped into screams, the masks of celebration melted into snarling faces, and branches coiled into claws that tore through leaf and flesh alike.

When the dawn came gray and still, she alone remained.

She survived the curse, but not unscathed.

Gathering what she could from the ruins, she fled, saving the acorns of the Sacred Tree, their glow faint and trembling like dying embers.

She had hoped they might restore the forest, but their magic could do nothing now but shine dimly through the forest's darkness.

Now the forest breathes rot and shadow.

The paths twist upon themselves, and travelers vanish beneath the black canopy.

Eshvara walks among them, her staff a fragile lantern on the dangerous trails.

Its glow cannot heal the land or cleanse her curse, it can only guide the next step in the dark.

She remembers everyone she saved.

A broken compass from merchants who lost their way, once worn as a symbol of protection, left behind by one too afraid to face her, and of a deer — a child’s gratitude for a safe path home.