The great still one who resides in the woods. Whose followers both admire and mourn their unending silence. Who muse and lament the cracks upon their mask.
Noren the Silent, sentinel of the fallen brush and keeper of wordly secrets, sits in an unbroken calm within the valleys. Knowing some queer knowledge, their mask has developed a crack.
Unable to see the ethereal silken threads about their form, how could anyone begin to understand a truth that could not be taught, only felt? For this force, there could be no teacher, only a supreme example.
Silence...and stillness.
Do you see the threads...? What do they mean, weary traveler..?
