The Sentient Grove, once a tranquil sanctuary where druids from distant realms communed with their departed loved ones. Here, the magic of the graveyard allowed fleeting unions where spirits could possess the local plant-life, a brief prelude to their onward journey to the afterlife. Now, however, it bears witness to a tale of sorrow and desolation, born of a druid's inconsolable grief over the loss of her daughter.

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In a secluded corner of this sacred ground, the druid delved into forbidden necromancy, embarking upon a dark ritual that hinged upon a single vital component the heart of the Ghost Willow. This majestic tree, the heartbeat of the graveyard, upheld the delicate balance between the living and the departed. In their desperation, the druid claimed the life of the Barken Crow, guardian of the tree, and wrenched the heart from the tree. In response, the Ghost Willow enshrined the Crow's body in a final act of protection. Yet, deprived of its heart, the tree's power waned, succumbing to death and casting the entire graveyard into corruption.

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Now, souls once transient in the flora found themselves forever bound, stuck between the material plane and the afterlife. The graveyard now dwells within the Forest of Fog known as Felmorra, a land existing between the realms presided over by the goddess Nabela, the weaver of mist and guide to the afterlife. Therefore the graveyard has no fixed location as anyone who happens to cross into Nebala's mist might find themselves becoming entangled within the graveyard's haunted embrace.

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The borders of the graveyard are marked by a perpetual fog and shrouded beneath a canopy of dense clouds and unyielding darkness. Glimpses of Nebala and her spectral followers, the Mistwalkers, haunt the perimeter, yearning to grant liberation to trapped souls. Mortals may leave the graveyard and venture into the fog, yet peril lurks, for those who meet their end within the graveyard's expanse will find their spirits ensnared here forever.

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A treacherous terrain unfolds, where twisted vines and thorny thickets claw at the uninitiated. The restless dead rise, inhabiting trees and water sources, give rise to grotesque abominations. Into this macabre tapestry comes the Dark Devotion, draped in tattered cloaks of charcoal and obsidian, their visages masked in bark, drawn by the potent energies that pulse through this forsaken place. They bear lanterns, fires shaped into arcane runes, capturing the elusive death mists. Each lantern, marked by distinct color and rune, serves varied functions, marking safe zones or dispelling the fog, shielding the cult from Nebala and her minions. They communicate in a cryptic language of hand gestures and body signals, known as the Call of the Dead, concealing their secrets from outsiders.