The Fall of Eryn Lasgalen
Icy wind blew through the forest, sharp on the tongue, biting fiercely. A slender hand scooped at the soft peat on the ground. Thin fingers gently rubbed together, crumbling the usually moist, freshly scented soil into tiny granules of dust. Piercing blue orbs observed the clearing in which their owner stood, taking in the scene. Half formed buds withered to black husks; what should have been brand new leaves floated to the ground, landing upon the already thick carpet below, deformed with all life removed, rustling slightly. The figure's eyes narrowed, as if trying to memorise the sight. Then, with a leap equal to that of a young deer, they cleared a rotting, fallen willow tree and sprinted away into the gathering gloom. The forest was dying. And unless they could find a way to halt the process, its inhabitants would surely perish as well. The Greenwood was 'Great' no longer. Something was wrong.
