Ol' Wooded Isle

The year is 185X. Magic is well known about, more than any other time in history. Some inventions have been made attempting to harness the power, but magic seems to always fail when it is 'made' by machinery. You have ended up on an island, some how, some way. Lured here, by something. A sweet song. A bird colored in mystique, a storm. A thick fog surrounds the isle. However you may try, you cannot leave. No matter how strong your boat or your mind is. You cannot leave. It's chilly and brisk. The land is strange. The trees seem to breathe sometimes, and the wind changes direction often. Dark brown vines grow on ashy gray trees with orange leaves that haven't fallen off yet. The smallest hamlets scatter the forest, long, long distances away from each other, each housing maybe ten people.