The wizard sleeps, but is not at rest. His noble face is twisted with horror, weak unintelligible cries break from his lips. You seem to be floating above him, like a mote of dust, drawing ever closer. The warm light of the fireplace dims to blackness as you seem to pass through his forehead, and you hear a cold voice like the rumbling of distant thunder rolling through his mind.
“I am of the Darkwood forest. The towering trees, whose canopy towers over the greatest of beasts, the Icevein river that charges through its heart. All those who call this their home, from those who crawl through the deadfall, never knowing the sun, to those who live above the canopy, never touching the earth except in death, these know me. I am of them, as they are of me. I am of the Darkwood forest, it breathes for me, and I speak its words.”
Fire flashes before your eyes, images of blight and disease, and the sound of brutal conflict echoes in your ears. The cries of the dying, and those