The Margreve Forest is ancient, already old when most of the gods were young. In time immemorial, it cradled the great spirits of nature, and its loam felt the footfalls of the ancient gods of elves and treants. As millennia passed, its roots swallowed rivers, its canopy stole the sun from vast tracts of land, and its groves crested mountains that have since weathered to hills.
In all that time, the Margreve has changed little. History transpires around it, lapping at its edges like the sea at the shore, but never truly invading. Though kingdoms rise and fall beyond its borders, the Margreve remains a world apart—a place where memories and old magic linger in the rings of trees and new ideas and ways never take root.