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Morrigan's journey continued, his presence a mere whisper in the vast silence, fearful that even his breathing might shatter the captivating symphony surrounding him. The melody's allure grew stronger, resonating with increasing clarity; he noticed his boat's speed picking up, as if released from the sluggish meander of the current. It was as though the water itself was alive, its gentle undulations propelling him forward with quiet, intangible caresses. His vessel grazed the land, its keel grating against the polished stones of the shoreline in a final note that marked the end of the otherworldly chorus.
Rising tentatively, Morrigan peered into the thickening mist. The outline of an ancient grove loomed ahead, barely visible, morphing within the fog as if it were a guardian spirit shifting at the edge of reality. Shapes flitted through the fog-wreathed trees—silhouettes that moved with such fluid grace they seemed to be nothing more than the dark whispers of leaves swaying to an unheard rhythm.
Stepping off his boat, Morrigan moved towards this enigmatic ballet of shadows. The fog embraced him wholly, severing his last ties to the world behind him as he ventured deeper into a realm where tangible reality seemed to fade into legend and lore.
The dance of shadows abruptly ceased. Not a single silhouette danced nor did a whisper drift amongst the trees—still, Morrigan sensed an acute presence, a consciousness both watchful and spirited. When he tried to voice his thoughts, it was as though a spell of silence had been cast upon him.
"You summoned me. Here I am, ready to hearken, to provide assistance within the realms of my capability."
The message formed with stark clarity in his head, but when he tried to articulate it, no sound would follow. He grappled with his speech; the intended words dying before they took their first breath as audible expressions.
A billowing pillar of mist surged forward and halted intimately close to him. Within this vaporous dance materialized a woman's face, her gaze locking onto his. She was undeniably female—but Morrigan became rooted to the spot beneath that supernatural stare and understood instantly that she was far from mundane. Her eyes were an intense shade of forest green without pupils, shimmering with specks reminiscent of stars strewn across a night sky. Placed beneath brows that were adorned with braids the color of sun-bleached silver, her facial structure presented a fragile yet unearthly beauty that seemed both ethereal and imposing.
For what seemed like an eternity, those mystic eyes delved deep into the essence of his being. Emerged from the shrouding fog, arms as lithe as willows stretched forth, with fingers long and slender extending their reach. Gently, they swept across his ears in a whispering caress.
"The time has come for him to hear," breathed the figure, her lips a vivid, striking scarlet.
Suddenly, the forest came alive with an enchanting chorus—a musical convergence of nature's own sounds. The quiet conversation of leaves dancing with the playful wind, ancient branches plucking melodies like celestial harpists, the joyous laughter of hidden brooks and the exuberant applause of waterfalls crashing against their rocky amphitheater—all merged into an expressive serenade by the forest's myriad creatures.
"The world opens its secrets to him!" they announced with a fervent burst.
Those extraordinary fingers lightly grazed his lips next—a sensation akin to the coolness of birch bark pressing against one's flushed skin after a vigorous hike through verdant paths—refreshingly crisp and imbued with enigmatic vitality.
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"With these lips, he shall weave words into existence," uttered the woman with lips as red as the heart of a rose.
"And so shall he speak!" echoed back the concert of forest voices, reverberating through the glade like a hallowed chorus.
Quietly she proclaimed, "Let his sight transcend the veil," while her unearthly touch tenderly blessed his eyes.
"He shall bear witness to all that has been veiled," chimed in the woodlands in a powerful symphony.
The shroud of fog that had once hidden the thicket from Morrigan's sight thinned, wavered, and ultimately vanished. What materialized in its place was a spectral landscape infused with a soft, pale green glow, as if he had stepped into the heart of a gemstone, luminous and emerald. His footsteps pressed into a lush tapestry of deep gold moss, peppered with tiny flowers that twinkled like distant stars. Before him stood the enigmatic figure, a woman with eyes that seemed to capture the cosmos and a beauty beyond this world. Her form was outlined by the gracious arcs and contours of her poise, accentuated by the moonlight. She wore a gown as whisper-thin as gossamer, her skin glowing with an inner light that recalled the first gentle illumination of a springtime moon.
Beyond her, over the rich mossy floor, arrayed her kin—a silent gathering of ethereal beings. They all shared those same large, captivating green eyes, alive with dancing flecks of light; their hair cascaded like waterfalls of spun gold; their features were fine-drawn—they bore the sharply elegant chins and an allure so exquisite it verged on dangerous, characteristic of their otherworldly race. They regarded Morrigan with varying intensity: some scrutinized him with austere gazes sharp enough to cut through steel, some with coquettish glimmers which danced and enticed; some offered up expressions of barely concealed longing—their lips slightly agape in quiet desire; while others studied him out of simple curiosity or stared with an urgency that hinted at pleas unspoken.
Bathed in a shimmering emerald glow, Morrigan felt an intensified awareness of the forest around her. The trees, now shrouded in mystery, stood like silent watchers—shadowy outlines against the twilight veil; they seemed to be sculpted from the very air by invisible artisans—a congregation of spectral arbors rooted in a realm beyond our own.
As Morrigan's perceptions sharpened further, she noticed figures weaving through the woods—men alongside women. Their gazes were intense and otherworldly, lit with the palette of the earth and heavens, their visages sharp and unfamiliar, distinctly unearthly. Their shoulders broad, they donned shadows and shades of the forest, their skin a deeper hue suffused with a feral strength. In motion, they embodied a supernatural elegance—and akin to the females within their midst, they exuded an enigmatic allure that spoke of a magic-born race.
A piercing cry snagged his attention. Nearby, he found a young woman in the strong arms of a man dressed in garments as green as the forest, her body cradled against his. His gaze radiated an intense flame of retribution and rage; her expression was marred by the shadows of agony and torment. In that transient glimpse, Morrigan envisioned the fallen birch tree—an act carried out by Valeran’s offspring—enveloped by the stalwart limbs of the evergreen, their figures melding with that of the human pair before him. The young woman and the green-clad man became one with the birch and fir tree, their fates inexplicably entwined in that single moment. The vision was shattered by the caress of a woman with lips as red as blood against his shoulder.
“She’s fading away,” mourned the crimson-lipped woman, her tone woven with a haunting undercurrent that resembled the mournful whispers of autumn leaves. “Look upon our sister, she who once burst with vitality, who once glowed with gentle grace and shone with an inner luminescence.”
Morrigan's eyes refocused on the girl, now barely clinging to the edge of life. Her skin was sallow, her once vibrant essence dimming to a mere flicker; her arms and legs, previously animated with energy, now hung motionless, her body slumped in defeat. Her lips, once rosy and full of life, were parched and ashen; the sparkle in her eyes had dulled into listlessness, and her lustrous blonde locks had lost their glow. The tragedy of her slow withering was unfolding before his eyes.
"Let the arm that struck this unfair blow wither!" bellowed the man clad in forest greens, his voice slicing through the silence with the grating cacophony of winter gales whipping through naked limbs. "May his soul shrivel up, may he be seared by the relentless sun! May the rains shun him and waters reject him; may the merciless winds strip him bare!"
In a haunting murmur too weak to be called a whisper, the girl breathed out her simple plea: "I thirst."