The Whispering Wiseman of Orluma In the shadows of the crumbling cities of Orluma, where walls are entwined with roots and roofs overgrown with ferns, lives the Whispering Sage. He often sits cross-legged on the damp cobblestones, motionless as a statue from a long-forgotten age. His skin, covered in fine green scales and interwoven with soft strands of blue fur, shimmers in the fluctuating light of the wild plants. His large, sapphire-colored eyes gaze openly and kindly upon the world, as if they could not only see, but also perceive the faintest dreams drifting in the wind. His garment is simple: layered, earthy fabrics, their threads marked by time. Around his neck lies a narrow, weather-beaten scarf that trembles gently in the rhythm of his calm breathing. Beside him often sits his small companion—a frog-like creature with shimmering, round eyes and skin that takes on the colors of moss. It imitates the sage's posture, its long fingers resting on its knees, its wide mouth open in an expression of quiet joy. Here, amidst rusty puddles, broken bricks, and wildflower carpets, a new kind of life unfolds. At the edges of the world, where the old fades and the new remains silent, the Whispering Sage preserves a wisdom that cannot be captured in words. He rarely speaks—and when he does, it is only in quiet, almost inaudible syllables that allow one to feel more than understand. Sometimes lost souls come to him: children wandering through the rubble in search of wonders, animals that have lost their way, or travelers whose hearts are too heavy to go on. He listens to them, not with his ears, but with his whole being. In his presence, time passes differently; Sorrows melt like rain on old stone, and even the deepest scars of the soul begin to heal. It is said that every plant that sprouts near the Whispering Sage carries a story: a memory of a friendship, a dream, a final kiss. Some flowers whisper at night, some leaves sing as the wind brushes them. And whenever a new morning breaks over the dilapidated gardens, the Sage sits silently in his place, the small frog-like creature at his side, his hands on his knees, his face turned toward the light. In a world that clings to oblivion, he remains as a reminder: of gentleness, of patience—and of the quiet certainty that even on the ruins of the past, new life can bloom.