There's a strange energy to wool. It might be the peaceful nature of their flock, or maybe it's something deeper. Some say there are echoes in their woolly backs, traces of lost knowledge.

• We pay attention closely to the stirring of wool, hoping to catch a hint of what's hidden within.
• But beware, the knowledge kept in the woolly back can be powerful, and not always benign.

Echoes of the Peak's Wool

Legends whisper through the valleys, tales spun from starlight and mountain air. They speak of a creature, cloaked in fleece lighter than any cloud. It roams the peaks, its footsteps silent. Some say it's a guardian of the mountains, while others believe it's a vision for those brave enough to seek it.

• Adventurers have braved treacherous paths in hope of its sight.
• Some claim to have glimpsed its luster amongst the stars.
• And yet, the truth remains enveloped in the whispers of the mountain, waiting for a heart brave enough to reveal its story.

Below a Sky of Sheepskin Clouds

The sun, a fiery orb, sank behind the horizon, casting long shadows across the bumpy plains. Above, the sky was a canvas of extraordinary beauty, strewn with clouds that resembled sheepskin. These vast formations drifted across the sky, their gentle edges merging into one another, creating a captivating spectacle. A gentle breeze rustled through the windswept plains, carrying with it the soothing scent of wildflowers.

• Observing up at this extraordinary sight, one couldn't help but feel a sense of amazement.

Where Granite slumbers and Wool unfurls

On the stark mountains, where granite rests beneath a sky of endless blue, lies a valley shrouded in lavender hues. It is here that wool gathers, soft and cream as the rising snow.

• Ethereal winds carry the scent of wildflowers
• Shepherds with eyes as bright as the stars, guide their flocks across the rolling terrain.
• And beneath the song of the sheep, a story unravels

A Shepherd's Story Woven in Wooly Back {

This here tale, spun from the fleece of a sheep/lamb/ewe as white as the first snow, speaks of days/times/epochs long gone. The shepherd/herder/watcher himself, an old soul with eyes like sunlight/polished stones/morning dew, knew/heard/felt all the secrets the wind carried through the grasslands/mountains/valleys. Every rustle of leaves, every chirp/bleat/song of a bird, was music/storytelling/poetry to his ears/heart/soul. His staff/crooked stick/wand, worn smooth by years of guiding his flock, held more tales than any book.

It started one bright/cloudy/windy morning when the shepherd/herder/watcher awoke to a sight that chilled/startled/surprised him to the bone. His flock was gone! Vanished without a trace, leaving behind here only the faint scent of lavender/hay/wildflowers and a silence so deep it cried/moaned/whispered.

He set out alone/with his dog/accompanied by his goat, following the faintest of clues/trails/impressions. His heart, heavy with worry, beat/thumped/pounded like a drum against his ribs. He knew he had to find his flock before nightfall, for danger lurked in the shadows as the sun began its descent.

Swallowed on the Summit of Unbounded Plushness

The air shimmered with a strange melody. Every surface enveloped me in luxuriant texture. I tumbled through this unreal landscape, captivated by its luminous hues. The path dissolved before my eyes. I longed for a anchor, but the summit of plushness offered only unending surrender.

• Maybe this was heaven?
• Or a hallucination?
• Regardless, I was lost on the summit of plushness.