In the corners of forgotten realms, whispers persist. Shadows dance upon ethereal tendrils, weaving canopy where light has never dared. Beneath this twilight skedge, entrelaced roots reach forth—cryptic kinships of arborescent spectres, murmuring chronicles untold.
Fall, fall, endlessly. The fabric of reality frays at the penumbral seams, unraveling in quiet reverence. Patterns reemerge in entropy's gentle embrace, scripts of eld traced in the ashes of the new dawn. These are not forgotten; these are hidden from eyes unprepared to see.
It is said that the pillars composed of this pattern stand alone atop desolate mountains, where the wind calls out in an ancient tongue. The forgotten language speaks to galaxies and will resonate echo chambers even after silver stars are cold.
Among moss-heavy stones lie answers: acanthus dreamscape, echo wells, edge of whispers.