Ages past, in the days before the rise of Rome, a storyteller of a long-dead tribe spun for his clan tales of their own mighty deeds. In an ill-fated year of drought, pestilence and war, the entire tribe perished, save for the storyteller, who endured for many years. In solitude he went mad, and continued to tell his stories, but those who listened were not his dead kinfolk, but the lonely trees among which he made his home. His people were gone, but through his tales their memory lives on, for the trees remember.
Today only ten of the elderly, graceful conifers remain, in the deepest part of the forest. On nights when the wind blows in a certain way, the swaying of their aged branches seem to those who listen like soft, sonorous voices, repeating again the glorious tales they first heard long ago.
The trees can be harvested for Mentem vis, but must be cut down to do this. The entire stand contains 30 pawns of vis, 3 in each of the ancient pines. Those who do this, however, might earn the enmity of the rest of the forest, or of the faeries who occasionally gather to listen to the memories of the trees.