In the arcane grove, where shadows meld into echoes, the trees stretch their arms, gnarled fingers twining stories forgotten. Beneath the emerald canopy, whispers crisscross like cables of mist, binding the air with secrets, old as roots that clutch the earth.
Amidst the timbered sentinels, a specter flutters—a lost thought, ensnared in bark. Gnarled branches sway as if to ulcers of time, each creak heralding the rustling of wisdom. What does it mean when the wind adopts a voice?
"They came bearing cudgels forged from heartwood, nestling beneath the skin of earth's careful mantle," the trees would say, mouths creaking open like ancient chests, revealing echoes of distant battles and silent decisions stashed in the silt.
Covered in moss and tales untold, they share fragments—cryptic cues to those who linger, sweat-soaked and believing in the infused power of nature’s cries. Attend their words, for nonchalance draws threats unseen from chlorophyll shadows.
As day wanes, a portal beckons, curling wisps of twilight winding around your ankles. Follow the midnight path to a glade, where stories unfurl in silk-like tendrils rustled by unbidden breeze.
