From the corpse of a slain god there grew a forest so twisted that the realms themselves recoiled from it, and the long struggle to hold its edge became The Gnarlwood War. Every root of the Gnarlwood was steeped in the residue of divine death and creeping Chaos, so that the trees themselves grew fangs, the vines strangled, and the air bred madness in any who lingered too long beneath the canopy.
The Sylvaneth came to the Gnarlwood as they come to all forests, seeking to reclaim it for the goddess of life — but here their song of growth turned sour in their mouths, and their own kin sprouted thorns of corruption and had to be cut down. Beside them, uneasily, marched the crusaders of the Cities of Sigmar, who cared nothing for the forest but everything for the blighted horrors it birthed and cast outward toward their settlements.
The war beneath the boughs was a nightmare of ambush and betrayal. Paths shifted overnight; scouts returned changed, or did not return at all; and the deepest groves harbored things that even the tree-spirits refused to name. For every acre burned clean, two more festered, and the corruption spread faster than any blade could cut, feeding on the very violence sent to destroy it.
The Gnarlwood War could not be won, only contained — a cordon of fire and vigilance drawn around a wound in the realm that would not close. The sylvaneth keep their mournful watch there still, singing to a forest that answers only with hunger, and the crusaders count each night the Gnarlwood stays within its bounds as a victory of sorts.
The chronicle continues
