As the dawn breaks, each plateau ignites with soft ambers, like scattered lanterns set adrift atop an ocean of stone. Ancient maps speak of winds here that hum low, carrying the echoes of ages washed in mist. Few venture close, for each lampward trail seems to tread familiar only to spirits. Rich in solitude but wanting anything describable, perhaps herein lies the landscape of memory, rather than dreams long deferred.
Here the mist hugs brackish waters, spun with unfathomable silvers and jade hues. Days pass, and the stars drown in reflective pools without remorse, abandoning locked tales of bustling skies above. Locals entertain myths of voices, hushed and pervasive, stitched to the sinewy flora. It is said that the map itself may dance anew when in serious company—its pages are known to speak.
You'd expect lands boxed by trees to be untouched by wayward case, but in Enceladian Woods, borders fray eagerly into sylvan embrace. Maps are not merely maps here; they are invitations spurring defiance away from rules which ought to govern direction. Riddles engrained in bark shed light only to those who labor short sighted of compass. Rather a tapestry of tangled intent shrouded in heavy veils, liable to shift in whispers divulged among the camping starlings.