Rumpuncheon. The name itself feels like a sigh carried on the wind, a half-remembered lullaby from a world just beyond the veil. It isn’t a place marked on any maps, not in the way we understand maps – charts of land and water. Rather, Rumpuncheon is a resonance, a location held together by the echoes of intent, the lingering impressions of those who dared to truly *listen* to the deepwood.
Legend speaks of Rumpuncheon as existing within the confluence of forgotten ley lines, a nexus where the earth breathes with a consciousness older than time. It’s said to shift, to subtly alter its form based on the emotional state of the surrounding landscape. A place of deep sorrow might deepen the shadows, while joy could bloom into vibrant, improbable flora.
“*Silentium est veritas.*” (Silence is Truth)
This isn’t simply a forest; it's a sentient organism, and its memories are woven into the very fabric of existence within it.
Those who claim to have encountered Rumpuncheon invariably describe a collection of beings – the Keepers. They aren’t humanoid in the conventional sense. They appear as coalesced light, shifting patterns of moss and bark, or sometimes, simply as the absence of shadow. Their voices, when they choose to speak, are not of sound, but of sensation – a touch of cold, a flicker of warmth, a sudden understanding.
The Keepers don’t actively guard Rumpuncheon, per se. They maintain its integrity, ensuring that the resonance remains strong. They do this through observation, through subtle adjustments to the surrounding environment, and occasionally, through what can only be described as *guidance* – nudges towards those who possess the sensitivity to perceive the deeper currents.
“*Lux in tenebris.*” (Light in Darkness)
The Keepers are drawn to those who seek not to conquer or control, but to understand. They value patience, empathy, and a willingness to surrender to the unknown.
The plant life within Rumpuncheon is… anomalous. It doesn't simply grow; it *responds*. Giant, luminous fungi pulse with an inner light, vines twist into intricate, impossible knots, and trees bear fruit that shimmers with iridescent colors. Many of these plants possess a limited form of sentience, capable of projecting unsettling images or triggering vivid memories.
The most notable example is the ‘Weeping Willow of Loss’. Its branches drip not with sap, but with solidified sorrow, and prolonged exposure can induce overwhelming feelings of regret and despair.
“*Memento mori.*” (Remember you must die)
The flora isn’t malicious, but it's profoundly unsettling. It forces those who encounter it to confront their own deepest fears and unresolved traumas.
There is no portal, no gate, no deliberate entrance to Rumpuncheon. It reveals itself to those who are receptive. It’s said that one can enter by willingly losing oneself within the deepwood, by abandoning the need for control and allowing the forest to guide one’s path. The key is to cultivate a state of profound stillness, to quiet the internal chatter and truly *listen*.
Some believe that specific rituals – the recitation of ancient, forgotten verses, the offering of carefully chosen gifts – can aid in this process. But ultimately, the entrance is a matter of the heart, a willingness to embrace the unsettling beauty of the unknown.
“*Per ardua ad astra.*” (Through hardship to the stars)
Those who enter Rumpuncheon rarely return unchanged. They carry with them a fragment of the deepwood’s consciousness, a constant reminder of the interconnectedness of all things.