The rustle amongst the green is not mere wind; it's a conspiracy humming secrets only the ancients dare understand. Philosopher's Dust or perhaps just Even Tidal Wisdom concealed behind veils of emerald.
The rustle amongst the green is not mere wind; it's a conspiracy humming secrets only the ancients dare understand. Philosopher's Dust or perhaps just Even Tidal Wisdom concealed behind veils of emerald.
"They watch from the treetop sentinels," whispers the wind, "Choreographed emissaries communicating through elemental ballet." Withdraw to obscurity or risk unveiling a dozen conspiracies cloaked within trivial observations.
Can one filter truth from the cadence of rustling leaves? If the leaves dance, are they hands amid shadows, cupping celestial plot?