Strange things happen in this place.
When the air grows cold, and leaves begin to turn, it is more than wind that moves through tangled branches, stripping them bare.
There is energy here. For generations it has slept, lying dormant and ingrained.
But no longer.
It grows in the now empty fields, and runs the shoreline - repelling the tide by sheer force of will. It could be called a force of nature unto itself - were it natural. It is not.
To be fair, neither am I.
I keep the truth: a dangerous calling when there are those who would see the truth forgotten. Buried like the dead.
This must not be so... it will not be so.
I alone know the secrets of this place, for only I remember them - and so they survive. Secrets held in gnarled roots, the very foundations of this place Secrets so wide in scope and intricate in being that they form it; keep it afloat.
Things too fantastic to be real, and far to real to be fantasy.