The Weald: a forest vast and ancient; endless and verdant. People say a hundred kingdoms could fit inside The Weald with room to spare. Much is unsettled and much more unexplored. To the South, they say, lies civilization, such as it is; even a king. Though he understands little of The Weald and truth be told The Weald knows little of him.

The Weald was a quiet place, a wide expanse of wilderness broken only by sparse hamlets and villages, connected by rough cart-ways and overgrown footpaths. In recent times trouble and unease have fallen upon the land: trade and travel from the North has dropped. Those few who make the journey to the Southern regions bring strange and confounding tales. There is talk of some strange disease or affliction; of empty towns and vanished townsfolk. Most of these travellers are ridiculed and ignored; their stories discounted as the deluded imaginings of simple minded peasants. Yet the accounts mount and none who journey North for answers return.

For those who make their home in the great Weald the truth is painfully apparent. Something dark and evil and hungry has awakened in the forest; they call it The Rot and it creeps forth from the deepest ancient woods intent on devouring all before it. Although none know the true nature of The Rot, nor its provenance; they know its signs and its workings. The Rot infects all it encounters; man, beast and plant. It twists and changes and defiles what it infests, creating foul creatures which have been named Gnarl. These shambling horrors are the foot soldiers of The Rot, spreading death and terror across the Weald.