Prelude

Myth Drannor has again become a bustling place. Graceful spires rise above the treeline, and a few of the outlying structures on the forest floor appear to have been fully restored or replaced.
Much of the city seems covered in tents; a testament to the number of troops stationed here these days.
Tents of all sizes, shapes and color stand in most open spaces inside the city.
Smoke rises from cookfires, and some tent flaps stand open to reveal eateries, makeshift shops, and the workplaces of crafters.
Armed patrols move through the restored streets and walk the perimeter of the city, keeping a sharp eye out for enemies.

Above the hum of activity, a lone voice rises, singing a melody so achingly sad that those who can hear it stop momentarily, brush tears from their eyes or shake their heads, then move on.

"Tall grew the trees in the hidden glade,
Below the tower that was not a tower.
Kept safe for eons from spell and blade,
By guardians who wielded Mystra's power.

The words that sighed through their golden leaves,
Had been heard in part but never whole.
But the trees fell to the hands of thieves,
And Magic's death is now their goal.

A precious circle of wizard's skill,
Is the key to their sundered ground.
Their home lies silent now and still,
Till the door in Nature's Hall is found.

The living must find that which is lost,
Before the world is riven,
Or mortals and Gods will pay the cost,
And lose forever the blessings given."