A swift current from the mainland that meets the waters of the tree of life, bubbling softly about mossy rocks, green grasses waving lazily along the banks in the gentle breeze. Somewhere in the boughs, the rainbow flying gerbil flutters its wings
An elven coastal village, pale misted air settling heavy about green and growing things, broad white sky above, loamy earth, lapping water, new life blooming in the flora and fauna, cacophony layered upon silence
Once a busting port now a twisted ruin, dragonfire swept through this seaside market town, wood smoldered, precious exotic spices and florals ignited, and both citrus fruits and the very sea vaporized in an instant
One a temple to the night, now a glade of crumbling ruins, centered in a glade of gnarled trees untouched for eons rests a stone of amber flame that smolders with scents of comfort, familiar and perhaps eternal
Translucent frosted firs above and a crisp blanket of nettles below, breath and wind and the crack of bending ice all that stir in the lengthening shadows of the living ancient wood.
A Dwarven mine in Nidavellir, the deep, warm places of the earth, gleaming golden by dwarven torchlight, things and places as they have been for time unending
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