Those of the bare chin, the clan of the wolverine, they who walked away from the mountain.
A theocratic sect that venerates the worship of women as divine
Most know the love that goblins have for mushrooms. Few know the lengths they will go to obtain their delicacy.
Pardon them, they are barbarians, and think that the customs of their tribe and river are the laws of nature.
Lord Bertrand of Shawstrope
In wonder the adventurers stood awe struck by the beauty and splendour of the surrounding foliage. The great open plain before them transformed from a flat green world into mesmerising colours and movement. The Vissealist stood unmoving, his hands outspread and resting gently on an intricate structure of vines that threaded their way over the wall and into the earth of the plain, spreading outwards from the ramparts of the kings palace.
It seemed like a great place to camp. The clearing was good sized and sheltered from the wind. The brook just a few feet away. There is a natural hallow to keep the horses.
Then the night came.
It was like it became a different place. The temperature dropped. The wind, which does not seem to disturb cloth, almost cuts through you like an arctic wind. No one can sleep, as the soft ground has turned hard. The horses are uneasy. The Bats are flying over and stopping in the trees.
And then there is the eyes. There are glowing eyes just inside the tree line watching your group. The mages and clerics can detect nothing, but there is still something there.
(yet there is nothing at all... The Darkness will do nothing unless the players do something to it. And even then it will all seem to be a conincidence.)
Of course, in the morning, it all becomes sweet and light.