The Pymblets are among the most elusive creatures in all of Vhalandar. They thrive in the flowering meadows that crown the mountains, where petals and grasses sway in the wind and bright moss clings to rock. Sight falters before them: a pebble that shifts, a flower bending against the breeze, a patch of lichen scurrying into shadow.

They fashion their coverings from the land itself, weaving fresh blooms and dry stems into cloaks, crowning their heads with petals or seedpods, and dusting their skin with soil or pollen until they vanish into their chosen backdrop. Their disguises change with the turning of the seasons—garlands of blossoms in spring, tufts of grasses in summer, russet leaves in autumn, and bark or pebbles in the barren months of winter.

Because of this ever-shifting camouflage, no true count of their numbers has ever been made. Lone wanderers sometimes glimpse them at dusk, clustered together in small gatherings, adjusting their cloaks or sharing sprigs of herbs with one another. Others claim to have seen them by moonlight, dancing in circles so faint they vanish the moment they are noticed, leaving only scattered petals behind.

Despite their shy nature, the Pymblets are not unfriendly. Those who linger quietly in the meadows may find their campsites adorned with neat piles of flowers, or wake to find seeds tucked into their belongings. Yet they never remain long in sight. With the first sound of approach, they melt back into their meadow, vanishing so completely that even a keen-eyed hunter cannot follow.

Where they have lingered, meadows seem brighter: blossoms cluster thick, grasses ripple as if stirred by hidden hands, and seeds lie scattered in careful patterns. The Pymblets leave no words and no certainty, only the quiet sense that the high fields are never truly empty.