On the eastern plains of the Kingdom of Bretonnia, on the outskirts of peasant farms, or scattered
across the trackless wilderness that surrounds them, ancient standing stones rise from the Earth.
They are inscribed with elegant symbols whose graceful lines and intricate patterns mark them
as beyond the work of men. The simple farmers and travelling merchants who come across these stones
rarely understand their meaning or purpose, only that they serve to mark the boundaries of Athel
Loren, greatest forest of the Old World. It is a boundary they will avoid crossing save at the
most dire of need, but they will never encroach so deep as to lose sight of the world behind.
This is a lesson that has been learned at great cost,
for Athel Loren is like no other forest in the world, and many who enter never return.
The boundaries of Athel Loren extend from the banks of two great rivers for many hundreds
of miles ending only at the foothills of the Grey Mountains. While the Forest is
confined within the Waystones to its west and the mountains to its east, it’s exact size is always
changing. It has even been known to spread beyond the waystones into the lands beyond
or rise to the peaks of mountains. This occurs occasionally when Summer is at its highest,
when the winds of magic blow most strongly, or for reasons known only to the forest itself.
A traveller who takes but a few steps inside the forest will find themselves immediately cloaked
beneath great trees that loom overhead, their branches blocking all but thin rays of sunlight.
The muted sunlight creates a perpetual twilight where roots twist and curl across fern covered
rocks or narrow creeks and all are often lost beneath low primeval mists that almost
seem to be alive. All who enter Athel Loren gain the sense that they are being watched,
with every step taken down winding track and leafy glade, followed and scrutinized.
Navigating the Forest is near impossible for as its outer boundaries ebb and flow
with the seasons, so too do its landmarks, paths and meadows.
What was at night an open clearing might by morning have become a dense,
impassible wood. Only in the largest natural clearings, known as glades, does the light
of the sun, moons or stars arrive in its purest form, but even these can shift without warning.
During ancient times it is claimed that Bretonnian nobles attempted to settle many of these glades
and carve out a kingdom of their own, only to be swallowed whole by the forest’s depths.
Rare is the safe path through Athel Loren. If an outsider is lucky, they will simply find
the trail they follow to turn back upon itself, expelling them from the forest’s borders. Others
might instead be lead down long and twisting routes leading ever deeper into the darkest,
oldest corners of the realm. Even those who emerge unharmed might find that in the few brief
hours they spent within the forest, a century has passed outside. Another might find themselves lost
within a labyrinth or trees for decades only to emerge just a few minutes after they left.
There are glades perpetually locked in winter, and others who only know the warmth of summer.
Time flows strangely in the glades in a way unseen outside the dreaded Chaos Wastes.
Only the Asrai, or the Fey Folk or Wood Elves as they are known to men,
are said to have knowledge of all the forest’s secrets. They have grown invisible kingdoms
amongst the woods through which entire armies might pass without ever realizing they rose above
their heads or dwelled beneath their feet. Within these hidden halls ghostly music plays and soft
glowing lights cast shadows on grand banquets of woodland game or intoxicating Elven wines.
It is not unheard of for outsiders; questing Bretonnian Knights or worthy servants of
Order to be welcome here, but it is a dangerous thing to extend the limits of their hospitality.
At the spiritual heart of Athel Loren lies the Oak of Ages
where the Elven realm within the forest was truly founded. It is said that a single acorn
from the oak is the equal of some of the greatest artifacts forged by mortal races.
Yearly rituals are undertaken here, and the winds of magic lie heavy around its base.
While the Wood Elves might move freely through much of Athel Loren,
there are some places even they will not go. The forest is home to far more than just Elves. The
trees themselves are home to wayward spirits and ancient forces beyond mortal reckoning.
In a place known as the Vaults of Winter, the Wood Elves will go no further than is necessary
to cast off their sacrifices to whatever ancient civilization dwells within. But the most dangerous
territory of Athel Loren is known as the Wildwood. Here, a second barrier of Wardstones imprisons
the most dangerous spirits of the forest, colossal treemen and shadowy seductresses.
WIth such a myriad of elemental horrors within, it might seem strange that any should attempt
to enter the boundaries of these woods, but not every journey ends in disaster.
The lucky or the worthy might be guided through the woods by beams of welcoming sunlight
emerging with fantastical treasures or long forgotten knowledge. Tempted by such tales,
there will always be those willing to take their chances, and enter the boundaries of Athel Loren.