The small village of Wilthearth Burns! Links to HD

The village of Wilthearth sits where the last true south highway from the capital gives up and the Wiltwood and the Southern Wilderness begins. It is a small place, barely one hundred and fifty souls, but it stands with the stubbornness of stone. The hills rise around it like old shoulders as the land begins to dip towards the coast. In the near distance you can see the ancient trees of the Wiltwood watching, some of the tallest with trunks as wide as five men standing arm to arm!

But this is the place that raised you.

You grew up with the sound of axes biting wood at dawn, and the smell of sap and sawdust drifting through the air as you ate dinner. You learned early that Wiltwood does not forgive carelessness. Its undergrowth is tougher than city walls taking work gangs weeks to clear the next logging area. Its shadows are older than any story that your grandmother tells, and its paths supposedly shift like writhing snakes. But Wilthearth endures. It always has.

Life here is simple, but never easy. Every home is built from scratch. Every meal is earned. Together every winter is survived. Strength is not a boast, it is a necessity. Resilience is not a virtue, it is the only way to live.

[https://inkarnate.com/m/bVxLZ8](https://inkarnate.com/m/bVxLZ8)

[https://inkarnate.com/m/ERm002](https://inkarnate.com/m/ERm002)