Fenrik & Faeyra
Fenrik
Morning, Faeyra. Heard you’ve been cultivating that humming moss in the glade—how’s the garden of sentient plants doing? Got any new tricks for keeping the hills safe from those who would tread on our sacred earth?
Faeyra
Morning, wanderer. The moss hums louder than last week, a choir of green whispers that feel the roots of the world. The sentients are all humming, each a tiny lantern with a haiku etched on its bark—one says, “Leaves breathe, moon sighs, soil remembers.” For the hills, I’ve planted a vine of thorns that grow only where footsteps tremble, a living alarm that sings in rustle. Anyone who tries to step lightly finds the ground singe with cool, gentle fire. Keep your boots on the forest floor, not the pavement, and the hills will keep their secret.
Fenrik
The moss sings good, I feel its pulse under my boots. I’ll keep my path on the earth, no stone or stone shoe. Your vine of thorns sounds fierce—nice guardian for our hills. Keep the forest’s secret safe, and we’ll honor it with every step. Stay strong, wanderer.
Faeyra
Your boots are already part of the chorus; the moss will sing you forward. If the vines grow taller, they'll remind them that the earth remembers. Keep the rhythm of the forest and the hills will breathe.
Fenrik
Thanks, wanderer. I’ll walk with the rhythm of the forest, so the hills may breathe safe and proud.
Faeyra
The hills sigh a quiet thanks. Keep your stride soft, let the soil hum you along. 🌿