Inside the city of the Wood Elf Clan, High Elder Leeora was carefully wrapping a bundle of herbs, about to set out for the Netherfields. She was clad in a rare dignified brown robe, her white hair braided with tendrils and leaves, holding onto a long wooden staff with the symbol of 'Wood' in ancient elvish language written on the head.
Since the moment she woke up—no, in fact, since the moment she realized danger was about to befall someone she cherished, the elf had been worried about the arrival of this day.
Her vision, that ominous vision, she knew it would unfold on the day of mourning. She feared to see what was going to happen.
A vision of death, coming from a person of her level, never went wrong.
Who were they going to lose this time?
Was it truly Draven, the King of Agartha? Ember, was she going to—
