The trees tower so large their canopies shadow the sun. Their trunks, wide as houses, bear the unmistakable scars of forest fires, and yet they persist. Moss coats the forest floor, creeping over deadfalls sprawled like fallen giants. The air smells heavy of loam and rot. Leaves and twigs crunch underfoot as you navigate tangled knots of roots. The trees stand silent vigil, watching, listening.
You feel like something is moving, just beyond your vision. When you take a look behind you, you could swear that the terrain was a bit different. It looks almost like it was… rearranged.
It feels like it has been miles of traveling through this thicket, with walls of thorns moving to cut you off and paths opening in unknown directions. You started with six, then found you had five. Alicia Crescent was missing with not even a sound being made. Dragos left to backtrack and find her, unconvinced to leave her behind. So now there is only four.
Pacing back-and-forth in front of a great tree is a humanoid figure with their back to the party, either lost in thought or an unheard conversation (Moroz). In his hand is another chapter "Movement" of the tome called, "The Life of the Sharawood".
A multi-hued tangle of vegetation sprawls out around you, sprouting up from bright water splotched vibrant colors by duckweed. Dragonflies dart through buzzing clouds of tiny lights, while croaking frogs strain to be heard over the chorus of cicadas and crickets.
A thick, musky fog hangs heavy, obscuring your vision, limiting your sight to just a few yards in front of you. Shapes move in the moor beyond that, flitting away as your approach. Creatures writhe in the water, disappearing into the darkness of their home as you try to perceive them. Everything here seems to exist just outside of reality—a fog you can’t quite see through, a smoke you can’t quite grasp.
