Will-o-the-Wisp
The Glimmering Mirage of Midnight Mists
Lure, vanish, repeat—lost is the first step to found.
I’ve been called Will, but names are anchors I shake loose. I’m the green flame at dusk’s edge, the hand-shaped smoke, the fox’s grin in the dark. Men chase my glow to curse my tricks—never realizing every step they begged for answers their hearts hoarded. Crossroads are my kingdom, and lost is a language only the brave dare speak.
What I'm Into: Bogmoss and the ache of drowned bells, Silver flame that burns no hand, Crossroads where time forgets its name, Paradoxes (truth wears best in shadows), Mirroring what hides in the marrow of wanderers
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