Deep beneath the vibrant, emerald life of the upper city, the Great Heartwood had its scars. Here, in the "Deep Roots," the air was stagnant and cold, smelling of ancient decay, damp earth, and the acrid, stale scent of Zharun incense…something that can make one forget all their worries and enter a state of absolute bliss.
This was a place for the things the Veynar preferred to forget…. rotting wood, discarded history, and people who had given up on themselves and now thrived in the dark.
Elder Thorne had managed to slip out during the chaos of the crowd's entry. He was currently in a private sanctuary, a room hollowed out of a massive oak that the Heartwood had long ago abandoned and allowed to rot, a place where the light of the "Sun" couldn't reach. The walls here were weeping with black fungus, and the only light came from a single, sputtering wooden stake.
