They came through the portal, those proud men of emerald robes and oaken staves. Druids are rare, few are willing to give up the comforts of their fellow man for the love of a tree. Their geas was simple; they were to be our guides in the forest, their ability to commune with nature was to protect them.
The first hermetic led expedition set out the next day; it vanished into those gloomy mists and has yet to return, even in shambolic form. One by one they were sent out, one by one our druidic guides were consumed by the forest. In the end, the last druid, a mild mannered and intelligent man, decided to commune with the spirits of this place, just outside the gates in an attempt to locate his missing brothers.
His screams, his twisted and tormented form as the vines rose up and tore at him, will forever taint the memories of us all. Thorn encrusted lances scourging the flesh from his bones, piercing his eyes and filling his mouth. What we rescued from that arboreal abomination was no longer a man, merely bones held together by torn sinew and befouling root. Whatever spirit this forest possesses it knows not the love of emerald robes and oaken staves.