Revil Fen stretches for miles along the coast of the Silver Sea, a trackless marshland with few solid paths and fewer inhabitants. North lie the withering, deadly plains of Laïs, and proud, dark Korton on the River Kor; south, the only succor before the City of Bronze is the Chateau of Staeye in all its maddening infinity.

Those who would pass through Revil Fen on their way north or south would do well to hire a guide, perhaps a roper from Staeye. For there are far older and far more dangerous things in the swamps than the burbling horror of a drowning death.

Chief among these are the feared ‘treemen,’ trees that stretch above the mire on thick strong roots. When they sense an unwary traveler—or, better yet, a struggling one—they silently creep forward on their roots, causing nary more than ripples and rustling. With a speed surprising for their bulk, they will pounce on travelers and hold them under until the last breaths escape.

A year later, from that spot, a multitude of small mobile saplings will grow. Only one in a hundred lives to be the size of its sire, naturally.

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