Ravenbreath

Veil of Murk and Memory: The Mire Knows Your Name

The air is thick, clinging like unseen fingers, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something older. Water lies still beneath the hanging vines, its surface unbroken—until it isn’t. Ripples spread without reason, moving without wind, as if something unseen stirs beneath the murk.
The trees loom overhead, their twisted branches bending unnaturally, as if listening. Some say the swamp remembers every footstep, every whispered word, every breath stolen by the fog. The wise tread lightly, knowing that not all echoes belong to the past—and not all things that watch remain unseen.