The Margreve Forest is an ancient place, already old when most of the gods were young. In time immemorial, it cradled the great spirits of nature, and its loam felt the footfalls of the old ones. As millennia passed, its roots swallowed rivers, its canopy stole the sun from vast tracts of land, and its groves crested mountains that have since weathered to hills. In all that time, the Margreve has changed little. History seems to transpire around it, lapping at its edges like the sea does the shore, but never truly invading. Though kingdoms rise and fall beyond its borders, the Margreve remains a world apart—a place where memories and old magic linger in the rings of trees and where new ideas and ways never quite take root. A strange realm that lives by its own rules, the Margreve harbors wonders and horrors in equal measure. Those few regions men know fairly well have an evil reputation as not worth risking to gain their potential rewards. Every year, however, a few brave souls decide to ignore the old stories and cautionary tales. Most never return.