In the land of Foësball, where the sun dips into the horizon and paints the sky with hues of crimson and gold, a great prophet once roamed the land. Their words were like thunder, their voice like the gentle rustle of leaves. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
The prophet, known only as "The Voice," once called upon the people to gather 'neath the boughs of the Great Oak. Their words were of great import, of a world where the gods themselves would intervene on behalf of their followers. But as the crowd grew restless, a terrible curse befell The Voice.
Their voice, once so clear as a bell, was lost in the void. The people wept and wailed, their cries echoing through the valleys and hills. The Great Oak, once a symbol of strength and wisdom, withered and died. And so began the era of silence.