Merwellyn Wood The Cataclysm & The War of the Lance The current year for our Dragonlance campaign is set during 351 AC "After Cataclysm". Inspired By Trampas Whiteman

Merwellyn Wood is less a forest and more a suffocating tomb, its deceptive beauty a crumbling mask over a festering heart of decay. On its northern border, gnarled and twisted trees press against the blighted, fetid swamps of Xak Tsaroth, their moss-draped limbs like skeletal fingers, clawing at the sun to keep its warmth from penetrating the gloom.

Within, a pervasive and oppressive dampness hangs in the air, a humid weight that clings to a person's skin and clothes, never fully drying, and encouraging the earth itself to breathe out a thick, earthy vapor promising slow disintegration. Arrowgum branches twist into a claustrophobic maze, their dark, watchful intent mirrored by the coiling bellbird vines that twitch in the periphery like a waiting predator.

It is a place where ancient pines and oaks cast deep shadows that feel less like shelter and more like a malignant presence. In this morbid quiet, one can sometimes hear the restless sighs and echoing sobs of the dead—the ghosts of those lost to the Cataclysm's flood and the brutal Shadow Years that followed. These are not mere echoes, but spectral whispers that sometimes flicker just beyond the edge of sight, forever reliving their demise. This is not a place of natural peace, but an unnatural stillness so profound that the snap of a twig becomes an intrusion, a promise that your trespass has not gone unnoticed. The woods hold their breath, and so, too, does anyone with the misfortune to cross its grim threshold.

Instead of merely stating the forest's edge borders the fetid swamps of Xak Tsaroth, a description might offer more detail. The moss-draped trees aren't just trying to block out the light, but perhaps their twisted branches are like skeletal fingers, grasping and clawing at the sun, desperate to pull it into the endless gloom. The air near the swamp might taste of old decay and stagnant water.

The suffocating dampness can be further described using sensory imagery. Rather than just causing rot, the humidity might feel like a heavy, living thing that clings to a person's clothes and skin, never fully drying. The ground itself, perpetually moist, could be described as breathing a thick, earthy vapor that promises slow, steady disintegration.

The trees and vines could be further personified. Perhaps the gnarled roots of ancient vallenwood trees writhe across the forest floor like slumbering serpents. The bellbird vines, rather than just coiling, might twitch in the periphery, mimicking the slow, deliberate movements of a predator ready to strike. Even the ancient pine needles could seem to whisper ancient, half-forgotten secrets, carried on a cold breeze that smells of damp earth and decay.

The ghostly element could be intensified, moving beyond the simple mention of screams. The ghostly echoes could not only be heard, but their spectral forms might be glimpsed in the dappled shadows—flickering shapes of lost souls perpetually reliving their final moments. An unfortunate traveler might feel a sudden, inexplicable cold spot, as if a long-dead person just walked through them.

This unnatural quiet can be made more menacing by contrasting it with the normal sounds of a forest. The silence isn't peaceful, but heavy and expectant, as if the entire forest is holding its breath. The sudden, jarring crack of a twig underfoot or a bird's frantic cry for a split second becomes an intrusion, a signal that something has noticed your presence and is waiting. It's the kind of silence that makes one's own heartbeat thunder in their ears, each beat counting down to some unseen terror.