The Oracle of Twinewood

In the crook of a crooked forest, where roots whisper spells, She stands—woven in earth, a story the silence tells. Her cloak is stitched with secrets, her gaze with ancient flame, The last of the Threadweavers, with no known name.

Owlish hood, horned in warning, eyes that see through time, She speaks not in words, but in riddles and rhyme. The tangled cords behind her are paths once walked, Twisting fates and futures, in hushed tones talked.

Come too close and you may hear your fate unfold, A lover’s betrayal, a prophecy bold. But beware—what’s foretold cannot be undone, And the Oracle answers only once, then is gone.