Rookwyr (ROOK-weer) of Sootfen is the kind the mountains “keep” when they don’t feel like returning a man to town. They say he was once a trapper with a proper name, back when lanterns were bright and winters were only weather. Then he followed a fox trail too far past the last aspen stand and into the soggy dark of Sootfen, where the ground drinks sound and the mist rewrites direction. He came out days later with his beard burned-red like old ember and a blue eye set into his brow, as if the sky itself had paid his debt.
He still works the high basins and the bog edges, quiet as a lynx and twice as watchful. Rookwyr sets no cruel snares and wastes nothing. He trades in honest things: a strip of dried meat, a coil of twine, a pine resin salve that seals cuts like winter sealing ponds. If you’re lost, he won’t lead you with words. He’ll perch on a fallen log and stare until you remember which way your fear was pointing, then he’ll mark a safe line through the brush with the toe of his hoof and vanish into the reeds. Folks who cross Sootfen leave him a small offering, not as payment, but as a promise to walk gentler through the wild.
Rookwyr is composed of Icelandic fleece from a small Canadian farm and flock and may have some small bits veggie matter in his fur as the sheep live a happy life out in the fields. His feet were molded by my hands and casted in resin. He is completely bendable to your will.
He stands 2’2” tall and can free stand on his own.
Rookwyr (ROOK-weer) of Sootfen is the kind the mountains “keep” when they don’t feel like returning a man to town. They say he was once a trapper with a proper name, back when lanterns were bright and winters were only weather. Then he followed a fox trail too far past the last aspen stand and into the soggy dark of Sootfen, where the ground drinks sound and the mist rewrites direction. He came out days later with his beard burned-red like old ember and a blue eye set into his brow, as if the sky itself had paid his debt.
He still works the high basins and the bog edges, quiet as a lynx and twice as watchful. Rookwyr sets no cruel snares and wastes nothing. He trades in honest things: a strip of dried meat, a coil of twine, a pine resin salve that seals cuts like winter sealing ponds. If you’re lost, he won’t lead you with words. He’ll perch on a fallen log and stare until you remember which way your fear was pointing, then he’ll mark a safe line through the brush with the toe of his hoof and vanish into the reeds. Folks who cross Sootfen leave him a small offering, not as payment, but as a promise to walk gentler through the wild.
Rookwyr is composed of Icelandic fleece from a small Canadian farm and flock and may have some small bits veggie matter in his fur as the sheep live a happy life out in the fields. His feet were molded by my hands and casted in resin. He is completely bendable to your will.
He stands 2’2” tall and can free stand on his own.