[IC] A Stolen Land

[DM Dougfan]

Travel resumes, and the pace even quickens, as you pass out of the boughs of the Narlmarches and into the surrounding grassland and hillside. The kobolds, knowing that there is at least one among you with the ability to speak their language, remain silent throughout most of the journey, briefly exchanging glances. When you crest one berm in particular, you see a massive tree in the distance. Old and gnarly, half-rotten, the old sycamore stands as if a monument to its agelessness. There is a strange circle of fuzzy matter surrounding the trunk that, upon further inspection, seems to be a murder of crows.