The great arch trees of the everwood forest had lasted before time itself was thought to exist. Great armored trunks of the hardest bark in all shades of brown, twisting and monstrous branches that sprawled through the canopy of the forest like vines, and the dark foliage that blanketed the sky were all wonders to behold within the everwood's borders. That is, until one day the first of the capital trees came crashing down, roots having given way while burrowed down within the rich black soil. The toppling of the tree was the first of many. Soon as many creatures of the forest discovered, the weakness of that tree had soon spread, many falling way as the life within them drained or silently petrified under their vigilant posture. As the blight spread it created a spot of death that slowly encroached upon the land. The animals and inhabitants began their quick exile from the lands they had once coveted. Between the color of the soil and the appearance of the vegetation that lay rotting on the ground, land overrun by the blight was known as "The Black". Miles from the edge of the black, a small mining town deals with the spotty emergence of the blight around it's borders. Few adventurers and mercenaries attempt to tame the blight, or more so the abominations that spawn forth from the decayed wastelands. At least one such man is in the town today, standing on the top platform of a logging assembly. Using it as a makeshift watchtower to scan the perimeter of the town, he sighs and climbs his way back down. The stress has gotten to everyone, including himself. With a hand to wipe off his forehead, he does his best to shrug off his own worries and put his mind to the task at hand. A long dark brown leather cloak hangs off his shoulders, mirrored by equally dark brown hair set above two green eyes, a scar hanging across his cheek.