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Wildemount
Two armies clash on a fog-shrouded battlefield, heralded by the sound of trumpets and drums on one side, and by an eerie, chirping whistle like countless thousands of wailing crickets on the other. A raven, its ebon feathers spattered with blood, alights on one of the fallen corpses and gently raps its beak on the soldier’s helmet. The raven looks up, curious, and flies into the sky. A land embroiled in war expands beneath it, and yet, within the shroud of conflict, the raven sees twinkling pockets of light.
The raven sees souls that shine bright with courage, kindness, and determination. It sees souls lustrous with greed, fear, and anger. And most of all, it sees souls radiating with a desire to discover their place in the world. The raven sees Wildemount.
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