Her pale skin smells of thunder and the damp of woodland soil. From her raven black hair drifts the sweet scent of rot. In the wilds where she roams, the wind carries the bitter fragrance of a thousand wilted wild flowers. Crows caw in her presence and the beasts of the forest grow bold and restless with her will. Aching passions swell at her approach and the distant chill of her voice makes even the strongest of mortal souls to shudder.


In damp woodland groves and remote forest glens, where the twisting vines and thick branches of alder trees strangle out the light of the sun, Hlynastara rules as queen.


The Swordswomen Itinerant: a Planar Chronicle rosingbull rosingbull