“The forest can’t be trusted.” They heard the old blind barkeep spit. “Too many good folk go missin’ chasing echoes of the dead.”

Her words colored the parties tentative steps through the dreaded woods. The night cloaked the path in suffocating darkness, as the adventurers clung to the light of a single Driftglobe. They were guided by the rumors of a powerful but benevolent archfey that walked along the moonbeams. Townspeople flushed with adoration when they spoke of her godlike beauty and grace. They painted a picture of an ageless spirit with a gown and hair of feathers and a spire-like crown. 

And there in the glade, she stood singing warmly against the cool night air. It was a haunting melody that enraptured the soul to walk. The fighter strode to her with reckless fervor with arms opened wide to take in her radiance. 

And take she did. Coiling backward like a serpent the feather gown retracted as the spire crown opened into a sea of knives. Before a scream could even part her lips, the fighter was swallowed whole by a sweeping beak. The forest can’t be trusted, indeed.