The Whispering Wood: Secrets, Shadows, and the Unseen
A place where the wilds do not yield and the unknown lingers in every rustling leaf. Ancient ruins sleep beneath twisted roots, and unseen eyes watch from the depths of the trees. Magic hums in the air—old, restless, and waiting. Wanderers come seeking fortune, knowledge, or power, but the forest does not give freely. Here, debts are paid in secrets, and the trees remember those who take more than they offer.
"Careful where you step." The warning comes too late—mud shifts, sucking down boots, cold water creeping higher. The air is thick with decay, "This place stinks of death." A distant ripple of something moving just beneath the surface. A low sound echoes through the mist. Not quite a voice. Not quite human. The water stirs.
"Did you hear that?" The words are barely a breath, swallowed by the thick silence between the trees. "Just the wind." But the wind does not murmur names, nor does it carry voices that sound too close, yet have no source. A branch creaks overhead. A flicker of movement at the edge of sight. The forest does not answer, but it is listening.
"Which way did we come from?" The words are hushed, but the silence that follows is heavier than it should be. "It should be right here." The path is gone. Vanished. The trees stand where none stood before, their branches twisting overhead, blocking what little light remains.
"Feels different here." The air is lighter, filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the sound of distant, tinkling laughter. "It’s…warm." Sunlight filters through the canopy, golden and soft, painting the world in colors too bright, too perfect. A flicker of movement—small, winged, darting between blossoms. Joy hums in the air, inviting, intoxicating. But nothing this perfect exists without a price.
Where the wilds whisper, the past lingers, and the trees never forget.
