Beneath the cracked earth, an echo of laughter—old and hollow—grows more distinct as the sun dips below the horizon. It's the kind of laughter that doesn't belong to any human voice, yet it sings a tune of ages past. Villagers speak in hushed tones of shadows that linger just beyond the reach of candlelight, their forms barely discernible like threads woven into the fabric of twilight itself.
"He was here before the rain, before the first drops kissed the soil with their icy breath," murmurs a voice from the corner of the dimly lit tavern. The speaker, an elderly woman with eyes like storm clouds, gestures toward an empty chair, its wooden surface warm from an invisible fire. The air trembles as if touched by a gentle breeze that carries the scent of damp earth and ancient thyme.
Follow the trail beneath the old oak, where whispers guide you toward the unseen.
Beneath the old oak's gnarled branches, a path lies shrouded in mist. You’d follow it, but the mist whispers, "Not yet." You pause, captivated by the air's electricity, a crackling sense of the temporal layer slipping, revealing not darkness but an illumination of forgotten tomorrows.
Enter the Caves of Mystery Awakened Spirits in the Forests