Windswept Prophecies
Penumbra descends like a cloak, veiling waving grasses on twisted knolls whispering terrible secrets in static voices. From worn tapes, hushed artifacts of forgotten countries condense into eddies of sound. To decipher their tearful lisps,
venture into abandoned paths marked by spectral fires. Beneath gnarled trees in the unspeakable dusk, lives an old tale, quiet but longing for ears to hold forlorn echoes.
Among the sounds spoken from the cracks of endless static, a voice weaves strands of darkness:
"We dwell here, in shades unclothed by the moon's grace, where broken seals hold tight to secrets of the sea and beyond places marked by the ancient dew." Shadows drink the sun's remnants, ink-black waters hide silent battles.