The grass plain was once a humble place, blissfull and full of sightseeing creatures. Big and small, thin and wide, many flocked to see the great oak that stood high amidst the grass as well as breathe the fresh air it gave.
All that however, had changed.
The dense elongated branches of the old oak tree intertwined whilst the wind bellowed immensely, as if sudden surges of energy bounced through the air. The gathered crowd were bewildered at the sight that stood before them; a tree no longer proportional, with its thick roots grasping at the ground, clenching tight for fear of uprooting.
There was a sense of danger in the atmosphere as the clouds clashed together, directly above the old oak, causing great roars of thunder as they swirled around the centre point and coated the plains with darkness. The on looking crowd started to flee in any and every direction they could – some crawling, some dashing, some grabbed and dragged by others, a few even attempting to fly (whilst trying to maintain stability in the swirling gales, until they were far enough away that the wind had billowed out… if they managed to reach such a distance) and some merely stood there in shock and awe (the bigger and braver ones) until they too sensed a threat and made for far lands.
Even when there was no one, when every last tiny rodent or overgrown beast had vanished from sight, there was still a feeling of presence. Needless to say, it was far from welcome. All that remained in the grass plain was the old oak - clinging to the ground as it swayed in all directions… until eventually, and rather suddenly, it stopped. The clouds came to a halt, the thunder quietened, the wind blew away and yet the presence of danger stayed put. So did the darkness, and so did the tree.
That was when it happened. That was when Dohvul Soldor arrived.