(OOC Notes: I like to set the stage of the setting, I hope you all don't find my pompous rambling too insufferable.)

The Black Weald. A vast, ancient, wall of oak, birch, and shrubbery so thick it is ever shrouded in abyssal dark. As if the weald is in unending twilight. Indeed no light pernitrates the canopy of nigh-skeletal branches of dark oak that rake the sky like groping hands of the dead. The damp air, permeated with petrichor and the faint sickly scent of rotting leaves creates thick mists around the weald floor. Making traversal precarious and scouting by sight nearly impossible. In this place the wild reigns; serpents prowl. wolves hunt, the distant screams of deer are heard, as well as the frequent calls of nocturnal birds of prey no longer shackled by the break of day, and of course there are the calls of things... here-to-unknown. What exactly brought you here is irrelevant, prey or predator the Black Weald has you and is loathe to let you go.