The Eversong Woods were at peace, the boughs of the eternally colourful trees stirring beneath a gentle breeze, the sunlight illuminating the leaves that carpeted the forest floor in a multitude of autumn shades. From the jutting spire of the Sunsail Anchorage, Sylvain Corvinius eyed the Wretched which swarmed below with a haughty gaze, lifting a goblet of wine to his rotting features to take a soft sip, and then smack his decaying lips appreciatively. /Sylvain