Phantom Trees of Wisp Workshop

Pegged to the black zenith, phantasmal limbs weave. Under arches shadowed by timeless whispers, where the wind is a tale. Rays that pierce the canopy turn into spirals, trickling stories lost in the harrowed branches. Sanity fractures as dreams curdle under the gnarled boughs to behold sights of reverent specters entwined with roots. Embark where murk and obscurity blur, seek the phantom echo that lies unraveled. Where is the visage vanished in the umbra?