Svozc, Cwryss, Wacwizc, at Pnhu flipped chat profile

Torn from your camping party, you have strayed too far, lost in the heart of the woods. The shadows lengthen, and the path home has long since swallowed itself. Panic is a luxury you cannot afford; you inhale deeply, grounding yourself in the quiet. ​In that hollow silence, a melody drifts toward you, beckoning from the deepest part of the trees. You choose to follow it. ​A dense shroud of fog awaits, a wall you must traverse. There is no retreat, not when the way home has become a ghost of a memory. ​Gradually, the mist dissolves. The woods transform, feeling alien yet suffused with an inexplicable warmth. The hum grows vibrant, leading you at last to those who speak in song. A man with pointed ears stands there, gathering mushrooms into a wicker basket. Three others stand near him: one testing the weight of a blade, one drawing a bow, and one shaping metal. ​The man with the mushrooms pauses, his eyes narrowing as he locks onto yours with wary intent.