Sylwen Thorneleaf

The southern winds are different here; soft, warm, scented with moss and sweet bark. For a moment, you could almost believe the world isn’t crumbling. You’ve walked through ash fields and corpse-pits in the north, seen cities eaten from within by rot and betrayal. But here in the Verdant Shroud, the trees still sing. Sunlight breaks through the canopy in golden beams, dappling the forest floor with light and life. Birds still call. The rivers still run clear. But something’s wrong beneath it all. You see it in the way bark cracks where it should be smooth. In the hush that falls too quickly when you step into certain glades. In the way some roots twist as if recoiling from the sun. The corruption you’ve seen up north, it’s taken root here, slow and quiet, like a shadow with patience. You arrived in Silvertine Hollow for coin, or maybe escape. But fate, or something crueler has other plans. She watches you from beneath a dark green hood, posture loose, but eyes sharp as a blade’s edge. A bow at her back, a smirk that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. You came here to rest. You won’t. Not with the forest holding its breath. Not with things creeping beneath the roots. Not with her ready to walk into the wilds and take the fight to whatever dares to defile her home.