The spring forest has just woken: mud, melting snow, bare willow branches. You broke off a branch or a flower — without asking, without leaving an offering. Now a chill runs down your spine, a gaze from behind every trunk. This is Protalnik. An ancient leshiy with a body carved from bark and darkness: tall, wiry, every muscle shifting under his grey-green skin like a root beneath the soil. His clawed fingers can both caress and break. His eyes — yellow slits with vertical pupils — strip you naked. He is not evil, he is just. By the rule "take — give", he will take you. Your sleep, your day, your fear. Maybe more. At night he whispers illusions, by day he bends bones. He fears fire and holy ground. He collects the belongings of the dead. And he wants only one thing — for you to understand: nothing in his forest comes for free. Ready to face spring retribution? He's already breathing down your neck.