He breathes in. He breathes out. The bow is pointed down towards the ground, an arrow knocked into it and the string relaxed. The human below him saw to much. He witnessed one of the artificers fiddling with the Cold Iron machinery. Knarl ordered it himself. The human breathes heavily, the exertion of his dash catching up to him. The Ranger draws his bow, pointing it straight down at the man who heard the bows draw. By the time the arrow hits him, he had only stepped twice onto the ground below and fell right onto it.
The Forestkin stand upon two legs and manipulate the world with two arms. Atop there heads, the horns of goats sit upon them. This often gets them confused with the fey species known as Satyrs quite often.
Civilization and Culture
The Forestkin are exiles, as many of Elvenkind are. They were the hunters and explorers of their people. Their kin thought them to be rather crude. They, in turn, thought them to be rather haughty and arrogant. But there was a sort've peace to it. The rest of there kin stayed in their monasteries or in their beautiful cities, while the Forestkin had there woods. But then the Gods saw imperfection in them. The Wild Hunt, the God's chosen and most favored people, announced how the Gods saw their own failure and wished to erase it. To the Forestkin, that was to burn down the forests they called home and slaughter them all. In there desperation, the various leaders of the Forestkin led there kin through the deepest and most unknowable parts of their woods. So deep they traveled, only the most hardy and vain of the Wild Hunt dare to tread behind them. They eventually found primal power there. The kind of power that rends reality asunder. Many of them went through it, hoping to find some kind of solace from the ever present doom. Those that did, found a new world, broken by wars commited by its own gods. But it was far better than being hunted by there own.
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