Even the most casual observer would have noticed Liamm's obvious hesitation and nervousness when Ologeon committed his young apprentice to guide the adventurers into the Witchwood to the ancient tree where the mushrooms, morels and moss could be found. Perhaps some even heard the crinkle of parchment as the apprentice's hand fidgeted with the dutifully hand-drawn map he had prepared to alleviate the need for his services. He didn't even bother to protest, for he already knew this was non-negotiable.

Once this fact is confirmed, Liamm resigned himself to the task and did his master's bidding. Nobody ever claimed an apprentice enjoyed an easy lot in life.

The party makes preparations for the journey, which Liamm indicates should take the better part of a day. Departing the town, heading northward along a trail running parallel to the Elsir River, the party passes through several miles of irrigated farmland. The sun is already rising on the horizon and promises what should be a sweltering day. In the far distance, the party sees a bank of dark green, growing closer with each dust-rising footstep. The Witchwood.

Some folks claim it is haunted by the ghosts of the druidic people who once held sway over the region, others dismiss that as a load of poppycock. In any event, those woods are no doubt dangerous. If Liamm is pressed about it, he responds simply, "Up until a couple of days ago when I saw them dog-faced gnomes, I never had no troubles there." Seconds later he confesses that his exploration of the forest has been cursory at best though and he has mainly stuck to areas he knows well.

Around mid-day the party enters the lush, wet woodland and if they weren't sweating before, this is resolved in short order. It becomes quite steamy once the party slips under the thick canopy of trees, only the faintest of light filtering through here or there.

Traveling along the semblance of a game trail, Liamm directs the party toward their destination, the soft bed of leaves and dirt muffling their footsteps. The air is rich with the sounds of vibrant wildlife. That is, until the party presses forward and crosses the threshold into a darkened section of the forest.

The songs of birds fade as the party passes a dense cluster of trees. Up ahead, the group is greeted by an awe-inspiring sight. The broken and rotting husk of a once-mighty tree dominates a small clearing. The ground is dark and ruddy around the massive trunk, which must be nearly 100 feet across, and stretches more than twice that distance into the air, its top shorn off and splintered like broken teeth. Heavy layers of moss and lichen cling to the stump, enrobing it in rich shades of green, yellow and brown. The sickly sweet taint of mold and rot hangs in the air.

A small fissure beckons from the eastern side of the great trunk. The opening is barely three feet wide, and curls up the scarred bark like a wicked smile. A dim purple light, so faint as to perhaps be imagined, glows from within the trunk. The thrum of a low wind whispers through the forest – but as the party train their senses toward the rotted husk of tree, they realize that the sound is coming from inside the stump itself.

This is the "big tree" Liamm had talked about all morning, though his descriptions of it did not make it sound nearly as omenous as it now appears.

OOC: The party is about 100 feet distant from the tree.
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:19, Wed 14 Sept 2016.

The young apprentice whispers while standing behind a large frond some 100 feet distant from the tree, "The dog-faced gnomes where skulking about just there in the clearing. They seemed to be just as afraid of the tree as I was and were talking to eachother. Well, actually yapping really."

"I hightailed it out of here as quickly and quietly as I could. I don't think they even knew I was here. And good for that!" he says, this time breaking whisper volume.

The girl with the dirty blond/brown hair stops when the others do.  Her arms are folded across her chest, with each hand holding the edges of her cloak and rubbing the opposite arm, as a person would do to ward off the cold.  Her head is hunched low and she faces straight ahead at the tree, but her eyes dart incessantly.

But that is all of her that moves: her hands, rubbing her arms; and her eyes, prying into the gloom.

She says nothing.

Eoni looked around the clearing from where she crouched in the bushes.  It looked quiet enough.  She wondered what had happened to the tree to damage it so.

She had been hoping to come across one of the roadside shrines of Avandra as they traveled, but she hadn't seen any.  Joining the others had seemed like a good way to travel safely while still following her mission to seek out and maintain the foci of Avandra's devotion.  As she'd discovered as a child, they were sometimes found in out of the way places.

The others were mostly younger than herself, except for the dwarf.  She was pretty sure he was older than all of them.  When Yhus had joined she'd been looking forward to seeing how acolytes of Pelor held themselves but it seemed that even she was more worldly than the young farm boy.  She didn't doubt his belief, just hoping to learn how other faiths spread their patron's word.

Eoni wasn't really sure what Aldara was looking for.  She wasn't sure if the woman was running away from something or looking for something to call her own. Time would tell.  In any case Aldara was in stark contrast with the street urchin that had attached herself to their group.  Eoni didn't think the young girl would be of much benefit to their safety but she was hoping to guide her toward the word of Avandra through kindness and faith.

Marklin was more of what she'd been hoping for.  He and the dwarf, Valthur, were strong and capable.  Just their presence buoyed her confidence as she hid in the bushes of the Witchwood.  They were going to collect the mushrooms and whatnot and return for their reward.

She'd barely scratched the funds provided for her pilgrimage but she knew that the journey might be long and wanted to be well prepared.  She might not have any idea of what she was doing but there wasn't any reason not to be frugal while doing it.

Not for the first time, the woman's thoughts wandered back to the question of how long before the reverend mother would allow her to return.  A few months?  A year?  Definitely less than a year.  She really should have asked.

Valthur wipes the sweat from his face and examines the stump from the edge of the clearing. "Looks like your dog-faces scattered sometime after you did. Can't say I blame them. Something about this place isn't right."

He continues to examine the clearing and the gigantic stump at its center. He can feel his heart racing. The forest made him uneasy from the moment he entered it and the moaning stump does little to ease his spirits now.
"Does anyone else hear that? Where's that noise coming from?"

Like many of his companions, the young hedge-cleric stares in quiet suspicion at the ancient tree standing great as a castle tower in the clearing before them.

He is no warrior, this he knows, but he knows too that Pelor would have him go forth bold against all things dark and evil. And anyway, they only come to gather mosses and mushrooms…

“Where d’ya find the harvest yer master seeks?” he asks their guide in a low tone.

"Umm..." he whispers sheepishly, his eyes still trained on the giant tree. "I think that purplish glow comes from the moonsong."

The young apprentice seems somewhat coy and measured in his next response, "I didn't actually see them though. Never got close enough. But mark my word, there in there!" he insists.

"Please don't tell Ologeon!" he adds in.

Liamm goes on to explain Ologeon had a vision several weeks ago while consorting with spirits. The spirits told the alchemist the answer to his question (sourcing the mushroom, morel and moss) would be revealed within "a tree that took root long ago, north of town".

The apprentice has spent the last several weeks searching. When he saw the large tree and the purplish glow, he knew this had to be it.

"They have to be here..." he says in reassurance to himself more than anyone else, his milky cheeks now rose-colored.