DM![[Linked Image from i.ibb.co]](https://i.ibb.co/TMF6P4kn/woodwoad.png)
Through Whisper’s eyes, Jaliera watches as the owl follows the fresh scar in the undergrowth easily now, the crushed ferns and broken stalks forming a crooked line through the moss. The trail ends in a narrow glade tucked between massive old trunks.
At the center of the clearing, a lone figure lies on their side near the base of a broad, ancient tree.
Half-elf. Druidic garb, torn and darkened with blood.
Their chest still rises and falls, but shallowly.
Dark shapes move around the fallen body.
Three figures drag themselves from the roots and shadows: towering, bark-skinned forms wreathed in twisted vines and thorns.
Wood woads.
Their hollow, amber eyes burn with cold purpose as they close in a slow, deliberate circle.
One of the woads raises an arm. Vines peel back just enough to reveal a jagged wooden blade, held aloft as if preparing to strike. The movement is slow and deliberate, not born of haste, nor of fury. Methodical.
The druid’s fingers twitch weakly against the soil.
Whisper’s round-trip flight from you took little more than a minute. Whatever is unfolding here is close enough that you could reach it in moments.
Or pass it by.
