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The ancient forest thrums with secrets, its gnarled roots coiling like serpents beneath a moonlit sky. Shadows whisper of forgotten wars between vampiric lords and elven druids, their blood-soaked truce etched into bark and bone. Fae tricksters dance just beyond mortal sight, luring wanderers into hollows where time unravels. Beware the harvest moon—werewolf packs stalk these woods, their howls echoing promises of fang and fury. Legends speak of a sentient pumpkin patch, its orange glow a trap for those who dare mock its jagged grins. Witches barter curses in exchange for starlight, while wizards duel atop mushrooms that scream when crushed. Every step here risks enchantment or evisceration. Survival demands cunning: salt wards off sprites, silver maims shifters, and laughter disarms vengeful gourds. Trust no reflection in the blackened streams—they show hungers, not faces. Now run. The trees are watching.
