In the vast meadows where shadows of yesteryears reign, whispers curl from the soft blades, secrets lost beneath the earth's sigh, their murmurings an echo of forgotten dreams. Life treads cautiously in this silent husk.
"Through woodland paths and snow-kissed frames,
the wound echoes under silence's claims."
- Irisa Nightshade
Once, a figure danced amid the moon's embrace, her hands combing through the grass to weave songs such that the heavens wept in their rapture. All that remains now are tales, fables ere sung, but none recall the dancer's name.
The meadow's mouth finds itself trapped upon ley-lines crumbling towards unseen depths. Travelers, heed the murmurs—production of sage is amiss.
Within this, a path unfurls of soft cooing petrichor amidst droplets static in a webbed cradle.