In the depths of verdant silence, where roots entangle with stories untold, the language of trees sways. Here, where the sun kisses the leaves with a golden hue, echoes linger in whispers only decipherable by those who speak the dialect of the wind.
The oak, a sentinel of centuries, murmurs in deep bass tones. "Qwern thrall," it intones, as moss-clad branches reach toward the sky, inviting the traveler to listen deeper. Its words, like ancient carvings, etched through the years, reverberate through the underbrush.
Pine needles dance in the breeze, a chorus of treble voices, singing of journeys taken under star-laden skies. "Sylvani woa," they say, a melody wrapped in the fragrance of resin and earth.
Spruce trees, cloaked in shadows, speak in hushed secrets known only to the night. "Kalyndra's weave," they whisper, their saplings leaning into the dark, eager to absorb the mysteries held within the moonlight.