Warden of the Wild, a gaunt woman with raven tresses matted by grime, eyes as green as forest moss, and skin as worn as the dusty terrain she traversed, emerged from the foreboding gates of Krozenhaven dungeon. Her tattered attire, a patchwork of leather and faded linen, hung loose on her frame, like the rags of a song left to decay. The weary trek through the grey wasteland of Ashtihrund, devoid of vitality or vibrancy, was home to fellow travelers, their faces etched with the same desolate sorrow, their worn raiment a testament to the unforgiving locale. In every squalid camp, they gathered, their downcast eyes like ravens settling upon carrion, their gaunt form a shadow of what humanity once was.