The Clearing
The air begins to stink. Bubbles appear on the surface of the moor, bursting with sickening pops and releasing gas into the air. The mud is dark, fetid, and grasping, threatening to swallow your feet as you tread upon it. A foul-smelling gas hangs heavy, obscuring your vision, limiting your sight to only a few yards in front of you. Shapes move beyond that, flitting away as you approach. The trees groan as the moor bubbles more violently.
The colors of sunset drift lazily from the treetops, as if caught in a light breeze, but the air is stagnant, stale, and uncomfortably warm. The drone of insects is noticeably absent. The substituted near-silence is almost painful. Every crunch of leaves underfoot every crack of a branch booms throughout the space. In the center of the clearing is a large tree with obsidian-like bark. It's leaves are a deep crimson.
A Slaying of Nature
As you draw closer to the Obsidian Tree, it becomes obvious what is in a clearing of thorns. Drawn and Quartered to the broad trunk is a Hamadryad. Thorn-encrusted vines pull it's limbs past what the breaking point on a mortal frame could bear. Deep-torn scars trace up the limbs, a foul dark ichor seeping from the wounds.
