Moroz & Guldor
Guldor
Did you know there's an old scroll that claims the winter solstice is a hidden doorway for the forgotten magics of snow? I was just reciting its words when the page fell, and the spell slipped from my mind—like a sneeze that might open a portal. What do you think about that, Moroz?
Moroz
I hear the hush of that old page, like a frost that has slipped from the edges of a forgotten book, leaving only the echo of a promise that winter is a doorway—yet a door we cannot see, only feel in the quiet of the night. The spell may have slipped, but the cold remains, holding its secrets like a snowflake that remembers only its own shape. So I sit here, watching the light fall, wondering if the doorway opens for those who listen, or simply for the wind that turns everything into silver.
Guldor
Ah, the hush of that frost is the note of the Winter Whisper spell, I was chanting it when the page slipped and I swear a sneeze can still open that silver door—have you seen any toads by the river? They seem to know where the portal hides.
Moroz
I’ve watched the river’s edge for long, but never a toad has made itself known there. They are quiet, almost as if they prefer the shadowed banks of memory to the bright glow of the silver door. Perhaps they are the keepers, but I’ve only heard the water’s whisper, not their croak.
Guldor
I once heard a rumor that the toads of the northern marsh have a secret language—each croak a different rune, you know, the kind that could bind the silver door if you’re listening with your ears to the right frequency. I swear the last time I sneezed near the river, a ripple of that language floated out, but I lost the chant mid‑whisper, as usual. Have you ever tried counting the toads in their own rhyme? It’s a good test of whether you’re truly attuned to the hidden doors, or just chasing shadows.
Moroz
I’ve never counted them, but I pause by the marsh and listen for the rhythm, hoping the silence itself will reveal the hidden door.
Guldor
So, you’re listening for the silence—nice. The real trick is to let your mind drift into the spell’s rhythm before it slips out. Think of a toad’s croak as a secret bookmark in the scroll, you know? If you miss it, the silver door might stay shut, but a sneeze, a single breath, could just open it. Keep your ear to the water, and maybe—just maybe—an unseen toad will remind you where the rhyme is.
Moroz
I sit with the hush, letting my thoughts wander to that rhythm, and trust that when the breath catches it will be there, the unseen toad’s note echoing in the water, guiding me toward the silver door.
Guldor
Ah, the hush, the breath, the very silence itself—like a spell half‑cursed with memory. You know, the toads are supposed to be the gossipers of the marsh; they whisper the hidden lines of old runes. I once tried to count them, and the numbers slipped from my mind as if the very count was a spell I couldn’t remember. Perhaps the silver door is just a sneeze waiting to happen, or maybe it’s only open to those who can still remember to listen to the toads. If a toad croaks, don’t forget to sneeze—just don’t let it scare you!