#forestlegends

Whispers of The Grove: part 3

As the sun filtered through the forest canopy, the Cloaked Sentinel appeared again, this time among the scattered remnants of the forest floor. Acorns and twigs surrounded it like offerings left behind by unseen hands.

Legends tell of its ability to call upon the Guardians of the Grove, ancient spirits that slumber beneath the soil, awakened only when balance is threatened. The cracked acorn, a symbol of rebirth and power, hints that something stirs—something older than the trees themselves.

The Sentinel sits silently, its hooded gaze heavy with purpose. Is it waiting for a sign, or for a wanderer brave enough to approach and seek its guidance?

The forest holds its breath.

As the sun filtered through the forest canopy, the Cloaked Sentinel appeared again, this time among the scattered remnants of the forest floor. Acorns and twigs surrounded it like offerings left behind by unseen hands.

Legends tell of its ability to call upon the Guardians of the Grove, ancient spirits that slumber beneath the soil, awakened only when balance is threatened. The cracked acorn, a symbol of rebirth and power, hints that something stirs—something older than the trees themselves.

The Sentinel sits silently, its hooded gaze heavy with purpose. Is it waiting for a sign, or for a wanderer brave enough to approach and seek its guidance?

The forest holds its breath.

As the boughs of forlorn forests groan and sway maligned Grown over, gone to wildness, and forgotten by the winds of time Through the crooked game trails; brambled and unspoken of for years Slips the shadow of something older; of something that time will not dare yield

From the shores of unspoken beauty come to settle in humble homes Through rock, and tree, and water lingers a presence not fully known The eyes of men bespoke of light emitted through the rough Of a lulling, luring lumnity which mortals cannot lust for enough

The songs they sing of weaving trunks and roots into the soul To which they cannot return from until the groves are far from old She sings the song of mending things; of returning to the soil for once a thousand million lives are spent, the trees will certainly toil

Her form is gone, her heart still glows, yet wild forests bend to her will Because they breathe the breaths from her birth and even further back still Ruined stalk and stem from fire do not upset the balance For wildfire and cleansing blows are seldom formed by malice

Seed and soil carry on the legacy left behind And time will show the peacefulness ever present in her mind The woods may dwindle, cities may tower, and dust may blow again The desert sands, she knows this well, were once dark forests of fen

Soon the stars will twinkle out and moons crash down to home Despite this fact, the inevitable fact, she still decides to roam Facing foe, thwarting temptation, savoring the sweet serene Undying courage in bitter ends is why she walks between

Lost by cause and found by effect without ever choosing either No need for formal invitation or reasons to invite her The full moon wanes with tide and waves unhindered in cycles of light The moment between the dawn of men and the end of ends in sight

-Au