The stream murmurs with the voice of old, a lunatic's yammerin' echoing through the gnarled roots and moss-laden stones. Tales of woe and wild wonder, where the moon drowns in darkness, and specters dance upon the water's edge.
The water, a liquid memory, whispers "Folks have come a-yarnin' tales of the Devil’s wager, entangled within the reeds, a symphony for the damned." They speak of shadows that twist, unraveling the compass of sanity.
Yet amid the gothic whispers, a revelation: To the stream's heart, where secrets lie, a tangle of thoughts woven into the gnarled branches stretching over the water.
Return whence you came, or follow the whispers, the choice as ephemeral as mist.