The Tithe of the Three Whispers

The corridor is choked with thick, iron-hard vines that pulse with a faint violet light, completely blocking the path forward. Three stone dryad heads are carved directly into the walls, their mouths locked in wide, hollow gasps as if waiting to be fed. Bioluminescent moss clings to the ceiling, casting long, shivering shadows over a cluster of strange objects scattered across the dirt floor. On each dryad's brow, elegant Sylvan script glows with a rhythmic light, and a faint smell of honeysuckle and woodsmoke hangs heavy in the stagnant air.