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Vanemuine — the ancient singer, grey as the mists over the lakes of Estland, wise as the forests whispering their eternal tales to the wind. He sits at the edge of the world, where the sky gently melts into the quiet blue of the Baltic Sea, and in his hands rests a kannel — an ancient flute, carved from pale wood, steeped in the scents of pines and meadows.

His face is calm and luminous. His eyes — deep as ancient wells reflecting the stars — hold stories beyond counting. In his long hair and beard, trailing down to the ground, are tangled the leaves of ancient oaks and the pollen of meadow flowers. As his breath passes through the kannel, it gives rise to sounds so tender and pure, like the first breeze of spring or the soft whisper of the evening tide.

When Vanemuine plays, the world falls into a reverent silence. His music is not mere sound — it is the very breath of the earth. Within his melodies lives the movement of clouds, the murmur of pines, the babble of forest streams. He sings not with words but with sound, and in this voiceless song is the birth of stars, the quiet fading of autumn winds, the awakening of spring, and the final sigh of an ancient tree. His music weaves ancient spells that preserve the wisdom of ancestors, the strength of the earth, and the secret script of time.

Vanemuine is neither ruler nor judge. His purpose is to maintain the world’s harmony, to remind humankind of its unity with nature, the grandeur of sound, and the sacredness of silence. He teaches that in every blade of grass there is a song, in every stone a memory, and that there is no greater force than a sound born from love and understanding.

Sometimes at dawn, when a light mist drapes the earth, one can hear the kannel’s lingering melody. And then it seems that the very sky leans down to the earth, listening to the ancient song of Vanemuine — the one that was first and shall be last.