The Witchwood is a brooding, corrupted forest where the trees seem to lean and whisper with a will of their own. Ancient oaks and twisted pines crowd so closely together that little light reaches the forest floor, and what does filters through in sickly green shafts. The air is heavy with the scent of rot and damp earth, and every step stirs unseen things that scuttle just out of sight. Roots writhe like serpents across the ground, and gnarled branches clutch at travelers as if unwilling to let them pass. Once a thriving woodland, the Witchwood is now steeped in malice—its very soil soured by old magic, bloodshed, and curses that linger like smoke in the air. Few who enter stray far before the forest itself begins to prey upon their senses.