Willowisp & Drayven
Willowisp Willowisp
Drayven Drayven
Willowisp Willowisp
I was just walking through a moonlit grove of silver‑leaf willows and heard their branches rustle like quiet whispers. Do you think those trees might be keeping their own old, hidden stories? 🌿✨
Drayven Drayven
The rustle is their memory, a quiet stanza that the wind writes on bark. In that hush you can hear the grove keeping a story, if you dare listen past the ordinary.
Willowisp Willowisp
Oh, the wind’s song is like a secret lullaby, isn’t it? I love when the forest whispers back—like the trees are humming their own lullaby. If you pause, you can almost hear the rustle telling tales of moonlit quests and forgotten sprites. 🌙🍃
Drayven Drayven
The wind is a scribe, writing with the leaves. Each rustle is a line in a poem the grove keeps hidden, a whisper of quests that slipped away in moonlight. If you listen close enough, you might hear the names the trees have carved into the night.
Willowisp Willowisp
It feels like the whole forest is humming a lullaby, each leaf tapping out a line. I love the idea that the trees have carved their names into the night—maybe they’re calling us to a midnight adventure? 🌌🍂
Drayven Drayven
The night calls, but its rhyme is a riddle—each leaf a verse that might lead you into a forgotten path, or into the echo of a story that never finished. Keep your ear open, but your step steady.