Obediah Maynard Habsny
Obediah Habsny is the Lantern Society’s long-serving gardener—silent in manner, yet profoundly connected to the living things under his care. Tall, broad-shouldered, and weathered from decades spent under wind and sky, Obediah speaks with a voice as low and calm as a still pond. Originally from the windblown vineyards of the Southreach, he trained under a master botanist before a personal tragedy drew him into solitude. The Lantern Society offered him quiet purpose, and he’s remained within the grounds of Augustus Estate ever since.
His domain is the Dark Garden, a mystical and breathtaking space whose plants—violet-black irises, dusky moon-bloom roses, creeping silver-petaled vines—remain dark and dormant until the full moon, when they erupt into an otherworldly display of iridescent color. Obediah tends this garden with a reverence typically reserved for holy spaces. He works by lamplight more often than sunlight, speaking to the plants as though they were old friends, and never removes a bloom before it’s given consent—his words, not anyone else’s.
It’s whispered among the staff that Obediah knows each plant by name, and that the garden grows differently for him than it would for any other hand. He keeps an intricate logbook written in green ink with a cipher only he understands, charting the plants’ moods, rhythms, and whisperings. He is often seen at night in the garden, oil lamp in hand, his long coat dusted with pollen, coaxing shy buds to open or gathering herbs known only to alchemists and dreamweavers.
Despite his silence, the younger staff often come to him for comfort. He listens without judgment, and somehow, just standing near the garden while Obediah works seems to settle the soul.
There are rumors, of course—that the Dark Garden is older than the estate itself, and that Obediah is not so much its caretaker as he is its chosen vessel. But no one dares ask. They simply nod when he passes, and thank the moon that he’s on their side.
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