Hidden deep in the quiet groves of Vhalandar dwells Thyme, a Nissri unlike the bold tricksters of his kin. He is timid by nature, shrinking back at the crack of a twig or the shadow of a passing cloak. Even the drop of an acorn can send him darting into cover, his small form vanishing among roots and ferns before curious eyes can linger. Encounters with him are rare, and most who claim to have seen Thyme admit it was only for a heartbeat, often by chance.

Despite his shyness, there is a fragile beauty to him. Those few who have caught his gaze speak of eyes that hold something more than fear—something that glimmers like the memory of songs left unsung. It is said he carries ancient melodies within him, fragments of the forest’s first music, though he has never dared to give them voice. Some believe the hush around him is not mere silence but a kind of listening, as though he alone can hear the notes of an older, hidden world.

Thyme spends his days weaving himself into the gentlest corners of the woods. He hides among flowering shrubs, curls beneath low branches, and moves in harmony with the trembling leaves. Birds often alight near him without alarm, and deer graze calmly in his presence, sensing no threat in the quiet figure among the ferns.

Though timid, Thyme is not without depth. His stillness seems to mirror the forest’s own patience, and there are whispers among scholars that such Nissri serve as keepers of memory—fragile vessels for things too easily forgotten. Whether this is true or not, Thyme remains a fleeting figure: elusive, delicate, and forever trembling on the edge between fear and wonder.