In the frostbitten meadows where shadows dance beneath a crescent moon,
whispers ride upon the winds, weaving tales of unicorns long forgotten.
Hooves silvered by the mist trample the whispers to silence,
each step a portent, a flicker of ancient intuition lost to the waking world.
Hidden within the cloak of night,
voices murmur, calling forth specters
from places veiled in the dark labyrinths of the mind.
They speak in tongues not meant for mortal ears:
a grim symphony, a wicked lullaby.
Venture deeper down into this realm, where portals arise at the whim of stones,
and heed the cautionary tongues of the ancients:
not all who tread here return unscathed, or indeed, at all.
Step carefully through the veil.
And there, amongst the ivy and decaying wonders,
lie the roots of a crimson tree,
whose fruit whispers secrets of the waking dead.
Discover more if you dare.