Chlôme

Three days north, where the Griesbois darkens and the River Tialline curves to cut off any approach, the woods sicken into the domain of Chlôme, the Rotting Veil — a dead and wrathful divinity that has turned the forest itself against the living.

None who go there return. Its Voice drifts south on bad nights, and it need not be sought to be answered. Everyone is quietly content that the river bars the way.