The old ways are lost to Deadwood. Their claws rip the wood, their hearts burn with rage. They strike at us, and the wilds shake. You, friend of furbolg, can help. Go to their den. Show them the wild will not bow to greed. Slay those who foul the roots, and come back when their cries fade from the trees. Bring an end to their wise, but sad, sages. They twist fel and foul vines. Do this, and we will speak to the spirits of your name.
Reputation