Methuselah Grove

Nestled in the dusty folds of a valley just beyond Mastodon Ridge lies Methuselah Grove, a place both sacred and strange. The terrain here flattens into a shallow bowl of cracked ochre earth, ringed by sun-scorched stone and the whisper of dry wind. At its heart towers a single colossal tree—gnarled, ancient, and impossible. The Methuselah Tree. Its trunk is broad enough to house a dozen men abreast, bark darkened by time and split with silvery veins that pulse faintly under moonlight. Its roots pierce the arid soil like claws, drinking deep from whatever buried magic sustains it.   The area around the Methuselah Tree is dotted with tough desert flora: bone-white shrubs, snakegrass, and thick, thorned cacti with round bulbs bearing pale pink fruit. These cacti are a rare species called Fey Buttons, and their fruit, when consumed, are said to induce vivid hallucinations. To many, the experience is little more than a vision quest—an intense and sometimes terrifying dream. But to others—those attuned to the currents of magic or with ancient blood in their veins—the fruit allows communion with the fey. Wisps of trickster spirits, long-banished dryads, and strange echoing laughter are all said to haunt the grove beneath starlight.   Though the Empire has no official claim over Methuselah Grove, few dare trespass here. Locals believe it's a place where the veil is thin, where reality bends like heat shimmer, and where answers are offered only to those who dare ask the wrong questions.