“Where the trees never tire.”

Folks say the Sleepless Forest wants your dreams and will take them if you slow down. Wind in the crowns sounds like whispers that know your name. Footpaths seem clear until you blink, and something blinks back. People blame a Horror that never left after the Scourge, feeding on nightmares and fattened by fear.

Caravans chew bitter wake-tea and treat the forested section between Rookhaven and Bellwatch like one long breath, held tight. No campfires. No songs. No names after dusk. And if someone dozes, the rest shake them awake fast.

Recently, white-clad priests have been seen along the caravan route with increasing frequency. They claim to be negotiating with the forest itself for safe passage, but the terms, and who must pay, are unclear. They leave chalk rings at waypoints and press small white tokens into bark. Teamsters say the rings shift at night.

The Waymakers Guild maintains the approaches, a few supply caches, and a midpoint river crossing: a plank bridge in low water, or a rope-guided ford when high. Route markers are silent and spare: ribbons, notched posts, charcoal blazes, and small reflectors that catch moonlight.

At the forest edge you can pay coin or take a small deed tag, returning it at the far end. Typical deeds:

• Swap faded ribbons

• Refresh blazes or marking post notches

• Carry wake-tea and other supplies to a cache

• Clear downed branches

• Haul gravel to patch ruts