The Sylvaneth are the children of the Everqueen Alarielle, spirits of tree and thorn quickened from soulpods that ripen in the sacred groves of Ghyran. They are not beasts nor men but living wood given will, their sap running cold with memory of the Age of Chaos, when the Plague God's servants strangled the Realm of Life and burned their glades to ash. That grief never leaves them; it hardens into bark and hate.
The Sylvaneth muster in wargroves led by Treelords and lithe Branchwraiths, and where they march the land itself rebels. Roots erupt through stone, thorns drink blood, and forests uproot to walk against the enemies of life. To trespass in their wilds is to be swallowed whole, dragged screaming into the loam to feed the next generation of soulpods.
Yet the Sylvaneth are no gentle guardians. Winter-hearted and remote, they reckon the lives of mortals as swiftly spent as falling leaves, and their aid is bought only when their own groves stand threatened. They wage endless war against the followers of Nurgle and the Skaven who gnaw at the roots of the realms, tireless and unforgiving, the green wrath of a wounded world.
The bestiary continues
