The Streacresh Forest
A mountain-ringed wood spoken of only in warnings — and the destination at the end of the Creshers' road.
Ringed by mountains and shunned by every sensible traveller, the Streacresh Forest is a place that ordinary people learn early to avoid. Stories cling to it the way mist clings to its trees: of those who walked in and never came out, of trials waiting in the dark, of something old and watchful at its heart.
The Creshers’ road leads here, to an altar beyond the pass, where the caravan brings what it believes the forest demands. For most who arrive, the forest is the end of the road in every sense. For a very few, it is the beginning of something else — a passage guarded, and tested, and not survived by will alone.
What truly dwells within, and why the wood bears the name it does, the forest keeps to itself.