The Crimson Wilds — Intro

The forest stretched farther than any eye could see — a living ocean of bark and breath. Pines, oaks, and ironwoods rose shoulder to shoulder, their crowns weaving together to hide the sky. When the wind moved, the whole canopy whispered like an ancient tongue, a language older than maps or names.

The ground rolled in soft hills, then broke into cliffs where rivers carved their paths through the stone. Pools of glassy water dotted the lowlands, each reflecting a fragment of the red moon that hung over the world. Mist drifted between roots and branches, clinging to the trunks like memory.

It wasn’t a tame forest — not claimed, not marked. The paths that wound through it were born from the hooves, paws, and talons of generations. Prints overlapped like a living script: deer and fox, elk and bear, winged things that glimmered under moonlight, and heavier shapes that didn’t fit into any known story. The silence wasn’t empty here; it was listening.

Mountains watched from afar, their peaks veiled in frost and low clouds. The air carried a scent of moss and iron — wild and clean, but edged with something ancient, something waiting. In this place, nothing ruled, and nothing begged. It was balance — patient, dangerous, beautiful.