In the deep recesses of the sodden forest, where even sunlight dared seldom venture, a whisper turned into a murmur. Of fragile moth wings, woven between ancient arboreal giants—beneath a shroud of twilight velvet, the shadows convened.
The winds carried remnants of forgotten rhymes, lost to time yet echoing endlessly, through caverns of skepticism and doubt.
Were these echoes mere figments, created from the secret desires of a sleeping Ancestor, or signs foretelling unspoken words of a trance song yet unsung?
One fateful evening, when rain fell in sheets of luminous despair, a distinct shadowy figure roamed the groves. Its essence reeked of unrest, an unknown promise tethered to the vestiges of starlit dreams.
In the central altar, now overgrown and long forgotten, something deep inside stirred—and the earth itself would not be peaceful until the echoes found their voice, their rightful scream!