Sometimes, they say, from inside the trunk—spirits speak. No, not spirits. Something else.
Listen carefully, trust no one, especially not those in the grey coats. The roots extend beyond the known earth. Deeper. Darker.
Last seen: a freckled boy whispered truths, eyes wide—never returned, only left notes near the oak.
Always check the hollow.
Why does it sway when there's no wind? Why whispers in waves? The air is thick with questions.
Lorespeak gentlemen convene—conspiracy over hot tea, cover of ink, hush of twilight.
Meeting minutes: Unreadable. Location: Unknown.
If you dare approach the roots, beware.