In the depths of the Old-Scape, where time pirouettes delicately between the seams of eternity, the air thrums with a resonance unheard by the ignorant ear. Each breath, a gentle whisper, escapes into the void, unraveling secrets entwined with the very fabric of reality.
Here, the ashen hue plays upon the skin like an ethereal caress, leaving cold trails that pulse in rhythm with a heartbeat unspoken. Shadows dance in the periphery, a silent choreography to which no one knows the music, yet they invite the silent observer to decipher their cryptic tune.
And beneath a tree ancient and wise, gnarled with stories forgotten by time itself, lies the Book of Whispers. It neither opens nor closes, yet its pages turn eternally in the clamor of mute conversations, divulging the sagas written in the language of the broken dawn.
The heartbeat of the Old-Scape endures, echoing through the expanse of existence, waiting for the one who hears the melody of its silence—a symphony that charts the constellations of the unseen and the unfathomable.