Armored Forest

Wonderful trees up there. You know the arrows from there are something else, assuming you have a wood-singer to work the wood. Dont work it with regular tools though, you'll lose in tools whatever value you make in the arrows.

— Jasper Cameron, Leader of The Bronze Ravens

To the far north of Osect, past even the Blighted Isle stretches a coniferous forest unlike any other. The Armored Forest is a tundra realm, its name inspired by the extraordinary strength of its ancient conifer trees, whose wood rivals the hardness of forged steel. The harsh region is called home by some of the toughest species in the world. Able to survive the freezing cold winters and the warm season where snowmelt turns the land to trecherous bogs.
The trees of the Armored Forest are unlike any others. Towering and strong, their trunks are veined with a shimmering resin that glows faintly under moonlight, earning them the nickname "starlight sentinels." It is whispered among locals that these trees are the guardians of an ancient secret buried deep within the permafrost, their resilience a testament to the magic infused in the land itself. Legend speaks of the Great Warden, a mythical tree at the forest’s heart, whose roots are said to reach deeper than the roots of mountains.
The wood of the trees rivals dwarf-forged steel for strength and toughness. This is a blessing, as unlike many other forests it isn't profitable to harvest the wood. Despite the value of pieces made from armorwood, it harvest is limited to what elves and druids agree to harvest. You can imagine that such strong wood wrecks and axes and saws, further complicated by the fact that the sap disrupts enchantments.
The fauna of the Armored Forest is equally extraordinary. Snowmanes, massive feline creatures with thick white fur prowl the shadows, their glowing blue eyes piercing the tundra’s gloom. Massive elk, with antlers that glisten like spun ice, traverse the frozen undergrowth, their movements so silent they seem more ghost than beast. In the twilight hours, flocks of luminescent frostwings—a kind of bird with feathers that shimmer like auroras—fill the sky, creating a surreal dance of light against the encroaching dark.
Fantastical as those creatures are, they hold nothing to the rumors that aboud of protective spirits that inhabit the forest. Outsiders trying to harvest wood, of which there are expeditions nearly every year, often have misfortune befall them in one form or another. The tools that dont fall victim to the incredibly durable trees vanish, animals escape from pens or have lead ropes wear out unusually quickly. Food spoils, even in the relatively cool temperatures and low humidity of spring and autumn. Still, everyone thinks that they can beat the odds, and so new expeditions come each year, losing money and occasionally people, or, in the case of The Frostpeak Expedition, losing everything.

The Frostpeak Expedition

from the journal of Bromli Stonecleft, Engineer of the Frostpeak Venture

Day 1

The air is crisp with promise as we march from Frosthold. King Thronar himself blessed our expedition, his confidence infectious. A hundred of us set out, our sledges groaning under the weight of supplies and tools enchanted by the Forgemasters. The Armored Forest awaits, its fabled wood the prize for our labor. I cannot wait to see it with my own eyes.

Day 10

The tundra tests us more than expected. The winds howl ceaselessly, tearing at our cloaks and numbing our fingers. Several sledges broke today, the ice beneath us as treacherous as a thief’s dagger. Still, spirits remain high. Hjlnir's determination burns brighter than any forge fire and keeps our spirits high even on the cold nights.

Day 16

At last, we have reached the Armored Forest. The trees are taller than the columns of Frosthold, their trunks glistening as though they’re coated in starlight. I touched one—it was cold and unyielding, like polished iron. We’ve set up camp at the forest’s edge. Tomorrow, we begin.

Day 17

A troubling start. The enchanted axes barely make a dent in the wood, though the Forgemasters swore they’d cleave stone itself. Even so, we made progress, felling our first tree at dusk. Strange, though—the resin trickling from their wounds gleamed faintly, almost like liquid light. It unnerved some of the lads.

Day 20

The forest doesn’t welcome us. Tools have gone missing, and fires refuse to burn. Even working in shifts we can hardly fell a single tree in a day. Last night, Thark, one of the younger smiths, vanished. His bedroll was empty, his footprints leading into the woods before disappearing altogether. Hjlnir insists we press on, but murmurs of unease have started to ripple through the camp.

Day 22

The creatures are real. Frostmanes with their glowing eyes stalk the treeline. They keep their distance, but their presence is unmistakable. And the birds—if you can call them that—the frostwings. They circle above at dusk, their shimmering feathers casting an otherworldly glow. It’s beautiful, in a way, but haunting, the silent spectacle of so many shimmering birds looping their way higher into the sky, as if to try to capture the last rays of the fleeting sun.

Day 25

We’ve awoken something. A tremor shook the ground as we felled a particularly tall tree. Minutes later, a beast rose from the frozen lake nearby—I think it was reptilian, as I caught a glimpse of scales as it tore through camp. It wasnt a dragon though, Dont think any dragon that angry would have left any of us alive.

Day 26

We fled deeper into the forest, hoping to escape the creature, but we found something worse. An ancient glade, will-o-the-wisps dancing about. Still, it seems that the creature has abandoned its chase of us. Hjlnir is dead, we shall make camp at the edge of the glade tonight and try to account for what supplies we have. The dancing lights are beautiful, they reminds me of the stories about the dances of the Outh Bees that they tell. If you look long enough you can almost hear a faint humming.

Day ?

I dont know how long we stood enchanted, I only woke up when a curious elk calf licked my face. The roots have ensnared our legs. The cold is not natural; it creeps into the bones, stealing breath and strength. The whispers are the worst—accusations in a language I do not know but feel in my soul. The others are gone, claimed by the cold or something worse. Only I remain, and I am too weak to escape.
I write this now as a warning in the hope that this journal is someday found: The Armored Forest does not forgive trespass. Leave it be.