In the forest's heart, whispers speak through crooked branches, their leaves rustle secrets seasoned with echoes of old storms.
I am Greenthorn, custodian of ancient roots, weaving tales in bark-tongue; beneath each ring lies epochs of twilight and dawn intertwined.
One foot followed another on the moss-draped path—a compass of green guiding souls lost in time. Subjects of scrutiny: the gaze of knotted oaks, solemn witnesses to the pilgrimage.
Can you hear the moss grow? its phonic entropy a lingua we grasp only in dreams. Listen carefully; the oldest lie buried in sap, waiting to spill wisdom.
Shall we solve the riddle entwined in the forest-floor matrix? Let the roots guide, deciphering cryptic messages left by echoes of the forgotten past.
Once, there was a seed, cast from the silent stars. It spoke with ciphers only the wind understood, waiting for those who speak like fir needles—pointed, yet grounded.
Venture deeper into the whispering woods