The Faewood trusts those who whisper kindly to its mossy branches and dew dampened corals. It trusts those who tread carefully along wild paths of stone and crystal as the moon rises before dawn.

The Faewood trusts those who venture past their fear into the deeper shadows, where flowers sing themselves to sleep and do not wake until the constellations turn.

The Faewood trusts those who ask permission to gather its fallen sticks and tumbled stones, and offer thanks for such gifts. The Faewood trusts those who know gratitude might be shown as a curtsy, or a kiss, or a caress along the tops of ferns.

The Faewood trusts those who test their limits to understand a realm beyond themselves. Who cradle new knowledge like secret flowers growing untamed within the wild gardens of their hearts.

The Faewood trusts those who tend its life without trying to reshape its nature into something small and pretty and neat.

The Faewood trusts those who understand that chaos, when properly inspired, is the mother of new magic.

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