Sylfir takes to the wing as a raven, travelling from one branch to another to survey the forest floor. It looks the same as any other part she's seen this deep into the High Forest. Rotten vegetation forms damp mats where fungus grows, barely concealing the bones of small forest creatures and the odd deer or boar. The forest should not look like this. It is dark and dank and dreary, the vital spark of life waning as leaves fall from branches too early and rot takes hold too soon. She can scarcely believe that the healthy trees lining the village of Summerfall are in the same woods.

She knows the beast has trampled here, but she can't find obvious tracks. Her mind drifts, wondering how far the creature's reach is, or rather that of its master, whoever they are. She wonders how long she will have to search to pinpoint evidence of its passage beside the wilting of the very forest she traverses. As she takes flight again, she lets the furious beating of her black wings take her higher. Soon, she's almost brushing the base of the tall canopy, her sharp avian eyes scanning for clues.

With keen eyes, she spots something on the forest floor, the dappled light of the late afternoon sun illuminating a disturbance in the thick mat of vegetation. A flutter of her wings brings her to the nearest branch to take in the sight.

The footprints of an owlbear.

And she might have thought it was just that, were it not for the footprints of a panther at the rear, two to match the two owlbear footprints. This is a four-legged creature. With a leap from the branch, she takes flight again and follows them, but she falters before perching on another branch. It occurs to her that she doesn't want to cross the creature again. She's not prepared for another encounter, and if the beast is with the red-eyed woman...

With a leap, she takes flight again, but travels in the opposite direction, going against the direction of the tracks. In her flight, she swerves between tree trunks, rising and diving past their branches. The few living things she finds give her a wide berth—squirrels, woodpeckers, and even stoats when she flies low enough.

But they all give way to dead animals the farther she goes—carcasses big and small, some mere bones, others still bearing rotten, blackened flesh. She swoops down to one, a half-eaten boar, cocking her inquisitive head to the side, eyeing the ruined flesh. There's no doubting the corruption of necromancy, but the wounds inflicted on the creature can be likened to a savaging from a great bear. Claws have gouged out strips of flesh from the boar's face, taking out an eye, and the stomach has been ripped open to access the innards. It's disgusting.

And it's warm. Not as warm as something recently killed, though it couldn't have been more than a few hours since its death. It is apparent as soon as she mounts the creature, her little taloned feet stepping onto its bristled hide. She pushes off it and takes flight once more, following the tracks. The wastefulness of the beast frustrates her. It viciously cuts lives short, only to let their matter go to waste, corrupting the forest with the spread of its disease. It makes her heart sink to bear witness.

Pressing on, she pushes her disgust to the back of her mind as she weaves through the tightening contours of the forest. The trees come closer together here, their branches almost barren. It's no wonder—few of the maples and oaks here look healthy. The lustre of the few red and green leaves that remain to them has given way to dullness owed to the ravages of disease. The only benefit is that it allows Sylfir to navigate her surroundings with a little more ease.

Soon she spies a stone structure ahead, its angles too precise to be hewn from erosion or any other natural process. Still, it has clearly seen many years of exposure to the elements. As she gets closer, she realises it is a statue. She perches on the rubble that surrounds it, taking in its weathered features.

The statue depicts a woman who greets the forest wanderer with a beckoning, handless arm and a weathered smile. Sylfir notices the broad curves of her tall, robust form, and the gentle planes of her face, her large, round eyes bearing a promise of comfort. From her fair head, Sylfir follows the curl of her flowing hair, adorned with the feathers of forest birds, all exquisitely carved by the loving hand of an artisan. The forest now reclaims their work, thin vines wrapped around the eroded stone like the fingers of a possessive hand. It gives the impression that the figure is being held back from moving as she reaches out to the traveller coming from the forest road.

There are other things that allude to her nature as well. She carries a longbow in one hand, and the quiver at her hip is full of arrows. She also wears the leather garb of a ranger, and her feet never seem to touch the ground, lifted on a platform of amorphous-shaped stone invoking images of clouds.

Sylfir knows this woman to be Mielikki, the Lady of the Forest.

Beholding those large, round eyes again, she grows pensive. Do you see what happens to your domain? If I called upon you for aid, would you listen?

But the forest is silent. Sylfir turns away. If there was ever a time Mielikki readily involved herself in the affairs of mortals, that time has passed. Indeed, attracting the attention of the goddess was more difficult than attracting that of other gods, even before the Second Sundering. Sylfir looks back at the eroded statue. Perhaps that is why this ruin stands abandoned now.

With the gentle beating of her wings, she brings herself to perch on the stone bow, eyeing the tracks as they move past the statue of Mielikki. They follow the highs and lows of the forest floor until they reach a slope covered in dead leaves and loose soil that curves as it digs into the ground. It abruptly ends along with the tracks in the forest brush, though Sylfir senses magic there, easily spotted by one well-versed in the arcane. It immediately piques her interest.

She flies to the slope and lands on the loose soil where one of the beast's front paws has carved a faint footprint. It gives way to pale stone under her meagre weight at the moment of her landing. She shifts it with a talon for a better look, and she can tell that it's no loose rock, but a stone path. It must lead to some kind of sanctuary—perhaps the place Mielikki welcomes the weary traveller to, and the place where this beast has made its lair.

Sylfir hops toward the brush and pokes her head forward, inspecting it with her beak, only to find that it passes through with no resistance.

This is an illusion.

She steps through and comes out on the other side to find that the forest before her is almost completely different.

The wider margins remain unchanged—the same dying trees stretching into the distance, merging into a mass of frayed bark. The immediate vicinity completely transforms, however, as the ground hollows out for something man-made. Statues of great forest creatures frame the stone path on both sides. Creatures such as the elk, bear, and leopard are pressed against walls of unyielding soil that rise ever higher as the path descends into it. The scar that man inflicted on the forest reveals the gnarled roots of the trees rising from the forest floor above, some of which burst forth to reclaim the path.

Suddenly, Sylfir grows nervous. Whoever created this illusion is far more knowledgeable than she in wielding magic. She can't be sure she's not being watched. Still, she continues down the winding path.

But with each step, the stench of carrion and the subtly sweet stink of decaying plant matter grows, only heightened by her avian sense of smell. It smells worse than any owlbear den she's been unfortunate to find herself in.

Soon she emerges into a circular haven of eroded statues, dead trees, and animal carcasses, where the stink of corruption is almost overwhelming, even cutting through the festering rot of dead creatures. It's like pure malice given substance—made almost tangible enough to taste—hanging over the area like an oppressive pall. Her heart breaks when she recognises it as a druid's sanctum. Every fibre of her being itches to get away from this place, but that is exactly why she shouldn't. This is the place she has been looking for.

A short flight takes her to the centre of the sanctum, passing over the animal carcasses. She perches on the rubble between a modest tent and another statue of an old man, though he has more the look of a tree. His skin is fissured like tree bark, and he has hair like thin ropey vines that sprout from his head. His beard looks much the same, too, tapering at his navel and hanging over the robes hewn from great oak leaves. Like Mielikki, his feet do not seem to reach the ground. Instead, they remain suspended by amorphous rock. Sylfir recognises him as the Oak Father, or Silvanus—the god of nature.

She turns clockwise, looking at the dead oak trees and the remaining statues that hug the root-ridden, earthen and rocky boundaries of the sacred space. She recognises the solemn countenance of the Leaflord, the long-haired Rillifane Rallathil, his pointed ears marking him as a member of the Seldarine—more specifically the patron god of wood and wild elves. Like Mielikki, he wields a bow, though he wears bark and not leather armour. The great dying oak trees that flank him on either side evoke the image of old treants as Sylfir rakes over them with her curious gaze.

Next comes the wild-haired, dark-eyed King Oberon of the Seelie Court, the fierce and unyielding protector of the woods. He's tall, broad, and strong as befits a warrior. Carrying a longsword at his hip, he also holds a staff in his hand, more like the pale branch of an aspen. Though his stone longbow has been lost to time and erosion, Sylfir notes the full quiver of arrows hanging on his hip.

Then there is the Faerie Queen, Titania, perhaps the most powerful of the Archfey. She is also a lover to Oberon, though the course of their love never did run smooth. She is immediately recognisable by her sheer flowing gown draped over her slender and supple form, and her wings, though the frail structures have fractured since their creation. Still, she is resplendent in her stony beauty, holding a diamond-tipped wand in one dainty hand, pointed at an unseeable target.

Beside her, separated by a great dying oak, is the enigmatic Eldath. She is like a sister to Mielikki but does not take after her in appearance, for though they are both tall, Eldath is thin and willowy in her dryad form. Her hair is a halo of tiny leaves like those of the underbrush, her skin is like fissured bark, and her willowy frame bears a gentle sharpness. Her beauty is delicate to the point of frailty, though it belies the strength of her resolve. She is a pacifist and does not use a weapon to protect the forest—instead, welcoming with open arms those with peaceful hearts and good intentions into her soothing embrace.

Finally, Sylfir lays eyes on the unmistakable form of the Morninglord, Lathander, the patron god of the village she now seeks to protect. He is radiant, even in this dull, eroded recreation wrought in stone, broad-shouldered and slender but well-muscled, clad in flowing robes that stop at the mid-thigh. The waves of his hair seem light, invoking images of the naked flames as vibrant as the rest of him. He is a being forever in his prime as befits the god of new life, spring, and light. Like Silvanus and Mielikki, he floats, but only so that he does not scorch the ground with his radiant footsteps.

Sylfir tears her gaze away from the deities to take in the wrack and ruin that lies before their feet. Most of it comes from the passage of time, but some of it comes from the corrupting presence of the beast and its master. That much is plain from the animal carcasses.

Most of them seem to be concentrated before Oberon. It is a mockery, she thinks, piling before him the corpses of creatures the god would hunt but never kill. Sylfir flutters onto the stinking pile, poking around the ruined, rotten flesh. She tries to spot a pattern, any kind of meaning to the arrangement of the bodies, but she can discern none. In this form, she's quite incapable of moving anything to make a more rigorous check.

There is something here, she is certain of it. The flesh stinks because it is rotten, of course, but there is another foul scent, one she recognises as more than rot. She can't quite put her finger on it, though. She needs to see.

Turning her avian head, she looks around. There isn't anything or anyone strange, but she knows she can't rely purely on her senses. With each passing second, she feels herself grow paranoid. With a leap, she takes flight, soaring upward until she's free of the sanctum and level with the forest floor, then flies higher still. Her talons scrape against bark as she perches on a tree branch and scans the horizon, but the forest is eerily quiet. She lingers for a bit, just to make sure, but she sees no one.

Taking flight once more, she descends through the illusion to the pile of rotten carcasses before the statue of Oberon again, and she lets the bliss of transformation take her. Golden light envelops her, and her wings become arms again, her beak becomes a mouth, and her feathers become hair. A sigh leaves her parted lips as her transformation ends, then takes in the sanctum through her elfin eyes one more time.

The usual lingering bliss of her transformation is cut short, though. Now in her elven form, her reflexes have returned, and she retches from the smell that inflitrates her nostrils. Her hand clamps down on her mouth to stem the flow of bile that threatens to emerge as she doubles over.

It takes a moment for her to recover, and tears spill from her eyes from the effort to retain some composure. When she calms, she returns her attention to the animal carcasses, pushing them around with a tentative foot. With a cautious finger, she reaches out to poke the rotten flesh, which sloughs off bone in a thick, gooey slime.

Sylfir is no stranger to rotten corpses. As a druid, she knows nature intimately—both in its life and death—but the two are not in balance here. Death dominates, and it makes her recoil with its overpowering stench.

Still, she peels the carcasses away, using her fingers and palms quickly coated in blood and offal. A grimace of disgust contorts her features as she works hard to reveal what could be the source of the corruption in the forest.

An altar formed of loose rubble—parts taken from around the sanctum and bastardised—reveals itself. Its contents are shielded by a broken ribcage of an immense boar. Still, it was not enough to protect the treasures within from blood and bile. It's difficult to tell what they are at first, but as she wipes the gore away, Sylfir sees that some of the smaller items are actually gems.

Others aren't as obscured, however, such as the bare, bloodied skull of a ram, the small pestle and mortar, or the bowl next to it. Sylfir reaches for the bowl, tipping it to slosh the contents around. It is mostly blood, but she can see something suspended in it—ground herbs, if she had to guess. Whatever fragrance they might have had is lost amongst the smell of carrion.

She looks around the altar, noticing other loose items—an empty flask of oil dropped on burnt wood and ash, and a cracked and empty bottle of wine. There's also a narrow selection of foraged poisonous berries and mushrooms scattered across the floor, spilled from those remaining on the altar. But more than anything, the glint of bloodied metal catches her eye.

It belongs to the blade of a strange knife, short and curved, but flimsy, secured to a spider-shaped handle. As she picks it up, Sylfir realises the blade is actually the merged legs of the spider and the handle its abdomen. This would never be used in combat.

Whatever ritual this blade was used for must have been elaborate to sow such discord in the High Forest. Indeed, its constituents speak to that. That they remain means this ritual can be repeated—this terrible corruption could grow, reaping untold destruction in these woods.

There's no going back now. The red-eyed woman will know that someone has trespassed when she sees the disturbed carcasses. Sylfir stows the blade and scatters or destroys the rest of the components, burning the organic constituents with a small, conjured flame.

She leaves the altar, scouring her surroundings again. Despite her desire to flee the stinking decay around her, she does one full pass of the sanctum, then another. It is upon her second that she notices something she overlooked before. It lies between the rubble before Eldath's feet, something silver that shines in the sunlight, though it's not quite bright enough to be metal. She closes in on it, and as she gets closer, she realises it's a lock of hair. It's bone-straight and long enough to be wrapped in a circle the size of her palm several times over. It rests on a tiny book with dark brown leather binding that is simple and bears no title. Deeper in the rubble also lies a smooth crystal ball—like a giant marble—with patterns that move like a roiling river thick with silt or dense, swirling smoke.

Curiosity prompts her to reach for the hair first, but as she touches the binding it lies upon, a jolt of searing hot pain shoots up her arm. She flinches, drawing her hand away with a whimpering gasp. Her fingers flex, and with her other hand, she tries to squeeze the pain from them. Though the pain does end, the memory of it makes her more cautious. With a turn of her head this way and that, she looks around, plucking a shattered piece of stone. It's thin enough for a dextrous task, and she uses it to remove the hair from the top of the binding, placing it in her pocket.

Crack!

Sylfir tenses, and her ears prick up to the sound. She waits for a second that feels like an eternity with growing anticipation.

Crack!

She recognises this sound—the felling of a tree. The beast comes this way.

She reaches for the crystal ball, plucking it from its place in the rubble and placing it in her pack. Then, she springs to her feet and lets the bliss of transformation take her, golden wisps licking her skin, coalescing to form an aura that envelops her. Her arms turn into wings and her skin sprouts black feathers as she takes the form of a raven once more. She takes to the wing, flying until she breaks through the illusion covering the sanctum, weaving through the branches of the trees above it. But she lets the beating of her wings slow instead of making her escape, and she perches on one of those branches to survey her surroundings.

It is just as she thought—the beast has returned to its carrion-filled lair. Beside it is the robed figure, but as they inch closer to the sanctum, Sylfir notes he is distinctly masculine. Given the extent of the illusion that covers the sanctum, Sylfir finds it easier to believe he is the red-eyed woman in disguise rather than an accomplice. She lingers a while to observe, but he never lets his guard down. She can never be sure.

He disappears as he passes through the illusion with the beast in tow. There is nothing left for Sylfir to see here, so she takes flight and doesn't look back, heading straight for Summerfall.