Light falls green and yellow through the forest canopy, and the heat of the midday sun brings a soft hum to the song of Carum.
At peace, for now, the Slumbervolk and the Walkers watch each other in silence. The time is close, for the Volk, when they would return to the Underworld, to their families, and leave the Walkers to their forest, so damp and fetid with life.
When the Key was returned to the Volk, the Death Walkers laid many spirits to rest, but the task in not complete – some still remain, and haunt the dreams of the living.
Some of the living have left this place already – the Amatu now dwell in the east, and the worshippers of the Moon have travelled north, in search of their paradise. Even the animals seek new hunting grounds; some say that the land is tainted.
The youngest of the Walkers are called Metonymy. The oldest off them has lived no more than two months, and some have seen a single sun. Yet they have a fierce will to survive, and a desire to make the world their own. Deep in the forest, they awake, alone or in small bands, as if from the forest itself. They find themselves in a strange land, made no better by those who came before them.