Where the sea and forest entwine, shrouded in mist. Ancient trees twist their roots into brackish tidal pools, their canopies stretching toward the heavens. The air is thick with salt and whispers, and in the quiet, one might swear the wind carries voices of something old and hungry. Paths vanish into the fog, a labyrinth to outsiders. Yet, life thrives—ferns creep, fungi feast, wildflowers bloom in the gloom. Pale deer slip through the mist, blackbirds flicker through the canopy, foxes burrow and shadow-furred hares move silent as spirits. At night, fireflies drift through the darkness, quiet guides to those who pay attention. Beyond the shore, the Wailing Shoals rise, reachable only by those who brave the biting waters and the seals that drift like ghosts beneath the waves. And deeper within, where the mist is thickest, the earth itself seems to breathe, swallowing those who stray too far.