A place where the sea and forest entwine, shrouded in an endless veil of mist. The woods are ancient, their gnarled roots twisting into brackish tidal pools that gleam like liquid silver beneath the moon, the treetops reaching for the skies. The air is thick with salt and whispers, damp with the breath of the ocean, and in the quiet, one might swear the wind carries voices—not birdsong, but something older, something something, something hungry. Paths vanish into the fog, the land shifting like a living thing, a labyrinth to outsiders. Yet, life thrives in the shadows. Ferns and ivy creep over the stones, draping the land in a tangle of green. Moss clings to the roots of the towering trees, softening the earth beneath. Hidden among the undergrowth, delicate blooms willingly unfurl, and fungi coat the fallen logs, feasting on decay. Further inland, fields of wildflowers break through the mist—blood-red poppies, silver-white heather, and deep indigo foxgloves. Small creatures dart between the foliage—blackbirds flicker through the canopy, their cries swallowed by the mist, while rabbits, foxes, and shadow-furred hares weave through the undergrowth, silent as spirits. Occasionally, deer pale as the moon can be spotted, tucked away from wandering eyes, and at night, fireflies roam through the mist, flickering like distant stars—silent guides in the darkness. In the tidal pools, crabs scuttle over glistening rock, and silver-scaled fish flicker in the brine, vanishing into the depths at the first sign of movement. Scattered beyond the shore lie the Wailing Shoals, reachable only by those who brave the biting waters and the seals that drift like shadows beneath the waves. While hidden caverns echo with the crash of waves along the cliffs. And deeper within the mire, where the mist is thickest, the earth itself seems to breathe, swallowing those who wander too far.

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