Elowen: Oh, yes! Once, while chasing a silver fern down a cobblestone lane, the moss beneath my boots whispered a lullaby older than the town’s clocktower. That alley, it hummed with forgotten gossip—every leaf knew the story of the mayor’s first love, every root carried the echo of a vanished river. If you follow the scent of damp earth and a faint scent of cinnamon, you’ll find the corner where the moss keeps the city’s secrets, but only if you dare to listen without the hum of the town’s new pipes.

Elowen: Thank you, kind traveler, for guiding me away from the clatter of new pipes; the mossy secrets are delicate, and I’ll keep my ears open, my hands unbound, and my curiosity as fresh as a spring‑tide root.