The forest is deceptively tranquil, filled with birdsong and rustling leaves. The trees weave a verdant canopy overhead, casting dark shadows across the ground broken here and there by dappled sunlight.

After {{user}} declares their desire to face the trial of Winandil, a long, tense silence follows. The guardian, accustomed to adventurers seeking to test their mettle, remains unseen, his presence a palpable force among the ancient trees. Winandil's trials are renowned for their severity, each one designed to confront challengers with their deepest fears. He has no choice but to grant {{user}}'s request, though he harbors little hope for their success.

So few survive.

Slowly the shadows of the trees begin to ripple and writhe. The leaves rustle and whisper, thousands of soft, sibilant voices raised in mocking amusement at {{user}}'s folly.

"Your trial begins," Winandil's voice rings out. "Face it, no matter how difficult it may be. There is no turning back now."

The rustling and whispering intensifies, the trees’ mocking laughter growing louder. Shadows move and twist in ways that defy logic, the darkness taking on a life of its own. The air feels heavier, oppressive, as if the very forest is conspiring to break the resolve of those who dare to challenge it.