Mirrors in the frozen lakes whisper secrets to those who dare approach the edge: reflections of what might be, what once was, or simply shadows of dreams that sleep beneath the tundra, dreams that spiral and dance in the moonlight.
Red northern lights flicker in the sky, an echo of ancient fire, weaving tales across the sky's vast canvas. Did they tell a story, a myth, or just a beautiful lie crafted by the stars to confuse the wanderers?
Time skews, bends, and breaks up here where the north winds chill the soul and the ground never forgets a footprint. Here, myths are not stories but distant echoes of truths long buried, waiting to be rediscovered by those who listen carefully.
Frostbitten fingers trace runes in the snow, ancient symbols of a forgotten language, a tongue that speaks directly to the heart, bypassing reason altogether.
Find the way through the fog, over the hills and into the vale, where stories sleep under the watchful gaze of the stars, guarded by the ghosts of those who believed too much and too little at the same time.