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- Joined
- Jan 8, 2020
Witchberry. It was known colloquially as the Wandering Woods, a vast forest towards the western side of the continent of Sylvanius that covered miles and miles of land, cut in half by the great Greenreed river which cut the local land in half, itself feeding down from the Hornpeak mountains. The whole area was known for the mysterious and powerful magic that seeped into the rest of the continent; Rumours said that all magic in these lands started there, in the middle of Witchberry, and indeed it was where it was at it's strongest. Spells that wouldn't work anywhere else found a power source there and on the outskirts of the forest, barely half a mile from the first of the trees was a small, walled and protected town known for selling alchemy ingredients of extraordinary power. Rare herbs only found in Witchberry, sometimes blood of a mystical creature or feathers of a harpy from Hornpeak and rarer still such as powdered centaur horns and potions of all kinds made up by those who sought to ply their trade in the most magically diverse town in all of Sylvanius. Wallachia, home of the most prestigious of magic colleges, too small to be a worthy city to hold much else but still bustling with trade due to the dangerous and fanciful location. Centuries ago mankind had tried to make it the capital of the continent, had tried to expand the city but as it grew bigger, the attacks started, the denizens of Witchberry rightfully wary of too powerful a city so close to their borders, and after several attempts, the walls had been erected and all expansion efforts had ceased. For now, Witchberry allowed them to live there.
As well as the magic college and the alchemist markets, Wallachia held other schools of learning and trade; hunters came and learned not just the basics of their craft but tricks on how to navigate the dangerous woods and come out alive, something far riskier than simply feeding from the winds of magic in the air. To venture into Witchberry was to put your life and sanity at risk, creatures of all shapes, sizes and temperaments lived in the Wandering Woods, protecting them from intruders, a standing army of fey and sometimes bestial entities that lived in their own little world. Those that ventured in without preparation were likely to get lost amidst the trees as the very land around them shifted forms, hills sinking into flatlands, the river itself changing the way it bent, landmarks and trees moving throughout the forest when no human eyes were upon them so that maps were useless. Magical compasses could help guide your path, protective amulets and spells or the denizens of the woods themselves if they were feeling generous, but the Wandering Woods had gotten it's name from all the poor souls trapped inside, unable to find their way out and falling prey to the dangerous creatures that lived there. Lost and wandering, these people rarely ever exited the forest and when they did sometimes they had no memories of what happened inside, or were too traumatised to tell their tales. Even the experienced trackers and hunters known for venturing into Witchberry to gather ingredients and hunt some of the creatures inside knew better than to go more than half a mile in; Witchberry seemed to be alive, and those that stayed near the edges were given a small reprieve, those that wandered deeper would find their protection spells start to falter, amulets and compasses crumble and malfunction and became one of the wanderers.
In the town, rumours had started decades ago that deeper in the woods were villages, settlements made up of centaurs and elves living together, ruins of ancient civilisations, a great lake that the waterfall flowing down from the Hornpeak mountains fed into and acted as the starting point for the great river itself and even a labyrinth. Treasure; gold and gemstones and magical artifacts long thought lost were rumoured to be in Witchberry, though it was only the foolishly bold that dared to try and retrieve them and nobody had ever confirmed seeing any such thing at all. For all intents and purposes, the forest was simply that, a forest where magic reigned. Tales were told and embellished in the Witchberry Ale, the tavern in the middle of Wallachia that adventurers with nothing left to lose would gather and spend the last of their coin before they took up their swords and shields and dared brave the Wandering Woods, taking up the tavern whores for one last night of pleasure, knowing that soon their time might be up. One last adventure, for glory the likes of which the world had never seen, all doomed to failure. On the wall inside was the request board and the missing persons list, updated with those that sometimes went missing from the town itself, the latest a priestess of little renown from the church by the river, last seen out picking flowers along the bank and headed towards Witchberry. Rewards had been offered for the return, or simply for news of, some of the missing townsfolk, most of them paltry sums though those for the return of wizards over confidently striding out claiming to have discovered the secrets of Wandering Woods tended to be much higher, rich families willing to pay vast sums for the return of foolish young men and women alike.
Every few weeks, the notices would be taken down, none had ever been collected on, and the tavernkeeper often joked with his staff about what happened deep in the forest, but what actually befell those poor folk, none could truly say.
As well as the magic college and the alchemist markets, Wallachia held other schools of learning and trade; hunters came and learned not just the basics of their craft but tricks on how to navigate the dangerous woods and come out alive, something far riskier than simply feeding from the winds of magic in the air. To venture into Witchberry was to put your life and sanity at risk, creatures of all shapes, sizes and temperaments lived in the Wandering Woods, protecting them from intruders, a standing army of fey and sometimes bestial entities that lived in their own little world. Those that ventured in without preparation were likely to get lost amidst the trees as the very land around them shifted forms, hills sinking into flatlands, the river itself changing the way it bent, landmarks and trees moving throughout the forest when no human eyes were upon them so that maps were useless. Magical compasses could help guide your path, protective amulets and spells or the denizens of the woods themselves if they were feeling generous, but the Wandering Woods had gotten it's name from all the poor souls trapped inside, unable to find their way out and falling prey to the dangerous creatures that lived there. Lost and wandering, these people rarely ever exited the forest and when they did sometimes they had no memories of what happened inside, or were too traumatised to tell their tales. Even the experienced trackers and hunters known for venturing into Witchberry to gather ingredients and hunt some of the creatures inside knew better than to go more than half a mile in; Witchberry seemed to be alive, and those that stayed near the edges were given a small reprieve, those that wandered deeper would find their protection spells start to falter, amulets and compasses crumble and malfunction and became one of the wanderers.
In the town, rumours had started decades ago that deeper in the woods were villages, settlements made up of centaurs and elves living together, ruins of ancient civilisations, a great lake that the waterfall flowing down from the Hornpeak mountains fed into and acted as the starting point for the great river itself and even a labyrinth. Treasure; gold and gemstones and magical artifacts long thought lost were rumoured to be in Witchberry, though it was only the foolishly bold that dared to try and retrieve them and nobody had ever confirmed seeing any such thing at all. For all intents and purposes, the forest was simply that, a forest where magic reigned. Tales were told and embellished in the Witchberry Ale, the tavern in the middle of Wallachia that adventurers with nothing left to lose would gather and spend the last of their coin before they took up their swords and shields and dared brave the Wandering Woods, taking up the tavern whores for one last night of pleasure, knowing that soon their time might be up. One last adventure, for glory the likes of which the world had never seen, all doomed to failure. On the wall inside was the request board and the missing persons list, updated with those that sometimes went missing from the town itself, the latest a priestess of little renown from the church by the river, last seen out picking flowers along the bank and headed towards Witchberry. Rewards had been offered for the return, or simply for news of, some of the missing townsfolk, most of them paltry sums though those for the return of wizards over confidently striding out claiming to have discovered the secrets of Wandering Woods tended to be much higher, rich families willing to pay vast sums for the return of foolish young men and women alike.
Every few weeks, the notices would be taken down, none had ever been collected on, and the tavernkeeper often joked with his staff about what happened deep in the forest, but what actually befell those poor folk, none could truly say.
