It is said that the blackwood was cut in to the earth by ancient, eldritch forces.
There, twisted oak trees are mangled into a thicket that has never been touched by the sun.
No man that ever entered has ever come back alive, though many have been bested by the blackwood. Those who call themselves adventurers. Mercenaries and Vagabonds. Grim faced burglars. Somewhere in the dark depths of that forest, their bodies are strewn about, beneath hell knows what.
It is whispered, that a few months ago, Jarl Garrard had his meadhall beseiged by a black force from the wood. Wicked creatures that were man nor beast, supposedly made splinters of his gates, before taking his daughter, and his five treasured dancing girls, as well as his treasury...
You and your companions come to a halt in the center of the forest clearing. The old crone of the village had always warned you of the dangers beset by the blackwood, but standing before it's gruesome lanes, you know that her tales fell short of the truth.
The trees here are all overgrown with ropey, thorn encrusted vines. The bodies of three men, hung about the throat, sway listlessly in the fog.
Somewhere within this fell wood, there is bound to be treasure and mystery. Steeling your courage, you grip your feeble weapons tighter and wonder if you will ever see the light of day again.
Passing beneath the oak canopy, the trees and their roots have bore a tunnel through the darkness. A raven cuts through the air, overhead. Despite the wall of fog and brambles ahead, you can make out the shape of ancient stone ruins ahead. The crow caws in the distance, as if beckoning you deeper into the wicked darkwood...
...What do you do?
