In the heart of Echo Forwards, a place where silence speaks and the sun dances through trembling leaves, there resided a man known only as the Whisperman. His voice, softer than the sigh of the wind, painted tales in the ancient tongue of trees — a language older than any town cradled in forgetful fog.
His arrival marked the seasonal tides, not with the crash of waves but with the gentle ripple of green across the landscape. The trees leaned closer, eager to decrypt his narratives cloaked in lichen and moss.
"Decode not my words, for they are not mine to bear alone," he would say, his ethereal laugh a soft rustle among the boughs. Whispers meant for all, woven into the very fabric of bark and stone.
Following the Whisperman's path, one could find trails marked by swaying ferns — secrets whispered in cryptic patterns of shadow and light. Each step was a conversation, an exchange of truths tangible and abstract.
Once, under a canopy of yearning, he spoke of a place beyond the edges of Echo Forwards, where the trees spoke in tongues he could yet understand. A cryptic prophecy, promising a journey into the tangled heart of wood and whisper.
Traversing the Symphony of the Void Council of the Hollowed Grove Journey Beneath Starlight's Lumen