The Verdwood

Bounds, Origins, and Quiet Law

The Verdwood surrounds Naath like a wide green ring of work and watch. It is not a wasteland and not a park. It is a lived forest with rules set by the city and kept by the Wardens of Rootwatch. The ground rises and falls in slow swells. Vermosa trees stand in long lines with thick roots that hold the soil firm. Creeks cut shallow beds and braid back into one another after rain. The old roads are laid in barkstone and marked with posts so travelers can hold a safe line even when the light dims. Shrines sit at points where the ley runs near the surface. Wardens keep those places clear, clean the offerings, and record any change in water flow, scent, or sound.

The forest’s order grew from its first duty: to keep Naath supplied and safe without draining it of life. The Lorekeepers mapped where the ley helps growth and where it pulls too hard. From those maps came the harvest rules. The Merchant Guild issues permits that match the season and the ground. Foragers cut bark from marked stands on a rotating schedule. Resin pans are set only where the soil can take the stress. Fungus beds are logged and then left to rest. If a warden says a trail is closed, it is closed. If a warden posts that a stand must heal, it heals. This is how the city feeds itself while keeping its walls low and its conscience steady.

The boundary of the Verdwood is not a straight line. To the south it taps the fog from Lake Selenmere. To the north it thins toward the Wyrmshade and its cold, heavy crowns. To the west and northwest it climbs into the lower skirts of the Maer’thalas Ridge. Each edge brings a different kind of risk. Wardens carry logs that track those edges—what moved, where the water pooled, which paths held underweight and which buckled. The Seekers use those same notes when a hunt, a search, or a survey goes beyond what a routine patrol can handle.

Seasons, Weather, and the Work of the Wild

The Verdwood changes with steady patterns that the city plans around. In spring, the creeks swell, the undergrowth rises, and the bark loosens on the Vermosa. This is when licensed cutters take the outer strips that will regrow clean. It is also when new dens appear and when the Wardens mark fresh crossings. Many beasts whelp near the same stones each year. Those places are flagged so trade lines curve wide. In summer, the canopy grows dense, air holds heat and scent, and sound carries farther than it should. Wardens warn travelers to keep to marked posts and to avoid night walks. Resin work is heaviest then. Fires are watched at all hours. A single careless ember can run along a dry fern bed faster than boots can stamp it out.

Autumn is the gathering season. Foragers bring fungus shelves, seed pods, and hardy herbs to the Trunk Market. The Boughring fills with fairs and end-of-summer rites, and families make short trips to way-shrines to mark births, deaths, and returns. The forest also grows louder as larger predators move to fatten before the cold. Rootwatch teams widen loops and set signal cords in the brush in case of quick trouble. Winter presses hard. Snow can dust the roads at dawn and melt by noon, then ice again by dusk. The leys under the forest do not sleep, but growth slows. Patrols shorten and tighten. Wayhouses along the main paths carry dry wood, bandage rolls, and quiet iron. In deep cold the forest is at once open and treacherous: sign is easy to read, but footing fails along the creeks and under drifted leaves.

Weather can turn in minutes when the ridge sends down fast wind or the lake throws up a fog bank. Lake-warnings are posted at Selenford and at the southern trailheads. If the fog rolls deep, voices drop and boats stay tied. The Lorekeepers teach that the lake bends sound near its skin and that careless spellwork there has strange side effects. The Council bans unsanctioned workings near the water for that reason. North of the forest, the Wyrmshade does more than dim light. Trails vanish. Animals do not keep to old habits. The Hollow Beacon, marked by the slow spiral of a forest wyrm’s bones, is the warning line. Few pass it. Rescue beyond it is never promised.

Goblins den in pockets of the Verdwood. Some bite at trade lines and draw steel in return. Others keep to their own food and noise if left alone. Snagroot Glade is one of those places. A Rootchewer band, and the ogre siblings who chose them for kin, make a mess there. Drums at odd hours, soups that smell like old boots, pranks that end with missing laces and paint on faces. Wardens mark it on the maps and tell caravans to go around unless they want to trade songs or stew. It is not safe in the simple sense, but it is not an enemy camp unless someone decides to treat it like one.

Paths, Shrines, and the Hands That Keep Them

The Verdwood runs on clear paths and on quiet service. Barkstone roads carry bulk—timber trains, resin wagons, and the carts that haul dye vats to the Embergrove. Smaller trails branch to way-shrines, watch posts, and creek fords. Rootbridges make short crossings where the ground dips. Marker posts carry simple, carved signs: a notch for a ford, a ring for a shrine, a bar for a shelter, a double cut for a seasonal closure. New travelers learn those marks on their first day inside the Eldertree Gateways. Wardens refresh the cuts when rain swells the bark and when moss hides them.

Shrines stand at places where the forest and the flows touch. Some are simple piles of stone with carved leaves. Some are low basins that catch spring water under a root arch. Wardens sweep them each turn, and Lorekeepers record any change in the sound of water or the way candles burn. The city’s rites use these stops without claiming them for any single family or craft. Hunters leave the first cut of haunch. Traders leave a cup of resin. Children set a braid of grass and say the names of those who are gone. There is no drama there, only habit and respect that keeps minds level when the forest’s harder days come.

Work crews move under permit. Foragers travel with baskets, knives, and resin scrapers. They carry stamped slips that list which stand and which bed they can touch that week. Each entry is logged at the trailhouse on the way out and at the Stall Hall when the goods reach the city. The Merchant Guild checks weights, matches them to the slips, and levies fines for any overdraw. Fines fund road repair and the watch posts. Rare harvests—vermosan silk, certain mushrooms, heartwood slivers from fallen giants—require a council writ and a Lorekeeper witness.

The Seekers step in when the pattern breaks. If a den opens too near a ford, if a string of carts goes missing, if the ley swells and knocks a stand out of season, they take the contract. Their code is blunt: share signs, carry your dead, pay your debts, and report the truth. Rootwatch respects them because they go beyond patrol duty and because they return with notes that help the next team live. Ezra’s Tavern in Trailhome posts their calls. The boards there show what the forest is asking from the brave in any given week.

Neighbors, Edges, and Matters of Law

A forest without neighbors is a storybook, not a plan. The Verdwood has neighbors with teeth and with tongues. The Redfang orcs hold the Bronthok Reaches. When lean years and thin herds pull them down from the high redstone, watchfires appear near old passes and the Wardens tighten the western loops. A quick raid is not a war, but a single cut can start one if hands shake or if fear runs ahead of thought. The Council keeps sealed copies of old terms with the Redfang shamans. They are read before any envoy leaves Trailhome with a flag and a risk.

Farther north and west, the Varnhollow Peaks hang their cliffs over dead-rooted cuts. The Skeliri keep that ground. They prefer silence to speech and remove trespassers without talk or ceremony. Their web-hung homes sit over chasms where old tunnels run. The city marks Varnhollow as off-limits unless a council writ names a clear cause. Wardens at the northern trailhouses carry a simple instruction for travelers who boast about climbing: turn them back. Pride is not a shield against spiders or a map through a hollowed mountain.

To the north lies the Wyrmshade. It is beyond the Verdwood, but its breath pushes south in the form of damp, dark, and a weight on thought that many do not carry well. Rootwatch uses the Hollow Beacon as a line in both directions. No casual entry beyond the bones. No pursuit past that point unless a writ names a life that can still be saved. To the south, the cold reach of Lake Selenmere presses its own rules. The Lake-Wardens patrol with boats and lanterns from Selenford, enforce fishing limits, and hold the ban on reckless spellwork. The lake swallows noise and bends sight near the waterline. The safest way to respect it is to obey the posted flags and to cast no spell without a warden’s eye on the shore.

Inside the forest, law follows the city’s clear lines. Permits define what can be taken and when. Market theft draws fines or loss of license. Violence on the path draws confinement, then service to those harmed. Unauthorized magic that strains the ley earns censure or exile if the harm is wide. The Council hears hard cases in the open at the Fountain Pavilion. Judgments are posted at the gates and at the Stall Hall. No one claims the forest is gentle. It is steady because people choose steady action within it.