Eradel
Eradel grew up on the border between Korlanand Wresten. Her parents died when she was young, and she was left to survive on her own. After having been abducted by Seskel Ash, she was installed as a member of the House of Flowers. Within the organization, she was assigned to The House of Grass.
Within the The House of Grass, she passed information to various agents associated with Seskel Ash. This was done in codes, hidden within various paintings that she was instructed to create. Due to the enchantments placed upon her, she was quite the average artist.
The Awesome Blossoms consider her to be a friend. After having worked with her to free her of the enchantment, she has been performing minor tasks for the House of Flowers. Lately, she has gotten new equipment, and has worked to improve herself as an asset.
Eradel is a nice young Elf woman, with the side of her head shaved, and long hair and bangs on the other side. Normally dressed in pretty leather armor, she wields a dagger, and some basic combat skills. She's quite capable in the wilds, and is decent as an observer. However, her incompetence in social situations causes her to make faux-pas on a regular basis.
She considers Greg Budknife and Bramhi to be her closest friends.
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Eradel was discovered to have become a ward of the Keeper of Forgotten Faces in Avanna. Upon conversing with her, the Awesome Blossomsgot the following story:
The Tale of Eradel, Scholar of Lost Paths
One of the faces on the obelisk is distinctively intelligent, its features refined and its gaze piercing, as though it sees through the fog and the Veil itself. The face appears elven, with high cheekbones and an austere, almost imperious expression. Yet, as you stand before it, the voice that emanates is calm, measured, and deeply sorrowful—a voice accustomed to unraveling mysteries but broken by what it has learned.
“I am Eradel, scholar of the forgotten, keeper of maps long lost to time. The Forest of Echoes called to me as it does to all who seek knowledge, and I answered, blinded by hubris. I believed my wit and wisdom would shield me from its treachery. But wisdom is no defense against a place that thrives on unraveling the mind.
The forest is alive with a terrible awareness, its trees ancient sentinels that drink from the Veil itself. They hunger not for flesh or blood, but for the essence of thought, memory, and understanding. With every step, they pluck at your mind, reshaping your perception. Trails once walked vanish behind you; companions’ faces blur and distort. Even your own thoughts betray you, echoing back in twisted forms.
I once carried the Map of Avanna from Carth, a masterpiece charting realms both seen and unseen. Within days—or perhaps minutes—the forest turned my map into a mockery. The ink bled, creating pathways that led me in circles, guiding me toward whispers of promises never fulfilled. I tried to resist, but the whispers grew louder, sharper, filled with my own voice reciting knowledge I had long buried. They knew me, more deeply than I knew myself.
It was in the heart of the forest that I found the Wyrmwood Glade, a place where the trees grow so close their roots weave into a single, pulsating mass. It was there I learned the truth: the forest is a library of echoes, a repository of everything its victims were and could have been. The trees are its scribes, and their whispers are the ink of stolen lives.
I am no longer Eradel the scholar of the House of Flowers. My wisdom is now the forest’s to keep. I linger here, bound in stone, watching as others follow the same path I once walked. If you seek answers, turn back. The forest offers none, only questions that will consume you as they consumed me. But if you must go, remember this: do not linger in silence, for the forest will fill it with your soul.”
As the voice fades, the swamp around you seems to close in, the mist whispering fragments of sentences in unfamiliar tongues. For a brief moment, you feel as though eyes are watching you from the trees, their scrutiny more invasive than any mortal gaze. The air grows cold, heavy with unspoken warnings, and the face of Eryndel seems to frown, as though silently pleading for you to understand the depth of his regret.
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