The Isles, cast adrift on whispering waters, were paced in solitude, steeped in legend. Dwelling among silken mists and emerald cloisters, they beckoned even the most seasoned mariner's doubt. Thickets of golden lilies cascade into azure coves, kissed gently by the sun's tender fingers.
Traversing along the cliff's edge, one can glimpse the spiral dance of will-o'-the-wisps amid fragrant blossoms. The valleys stretch infinitely, cloaked in the shifting disguise of wild grasses and mauve shadows. The cartographer's heart once trembled there, tracing lines of bloodwood trees against the horizon at dusk.