The darkness came early in midwinter, especially in the Greatwood Realm. The forest was never a bright palce, even in the height of summer, as the trees were then in full leaf. What little sunlight penetrated the canopy was mostly filtered out 'ere it could reach the forest floor; the overall effect was of a cool, dark haven shot with green and gold. In winter, more light could reach the lower levels, but it was a cold light, thin and grey. In the ever-present mists of winter, a traveler who ventured into the depths of the forest unprepared might find himself lost, chilled to death in the long dark. Fire, in this realm, was life.

The wind was picking up, and it looked as though it might start snowing at any minute as Gaelen gathered dead wood for the fire that she would soon need. She was glad to have been sent out into the deep woods, for she longed to escape the captivity of formal dwellings. As with most of her kind, Gaelen was most content among the trees, for she was a Wood-elf, and had dedicated herself to the guardianship of her forest home.

The Greatwood had once been an entirely fair and welcoming haven, and Elves had lived there for many thousands of years, yet now the lands were changing and had become ever more perilous. The boundaries of the Elvenhold had been pushed back before a dark shadow that was spreading ever-northward from the southlands, and there was no loner any doubt that Wrothgar, the Lord of Darkness, had made his home there. Nothing of beauty would remain in any lands that his evil had touched, and the only things that lived within his influence were twisted and misbegotten.