The isolated town of Brightwood was nothing special to look at: at least, not at first-glance The buildings were all made of the same unpainted wood, taken from the surrounding forest, and the streets were little-more than strips of packed-down dirt, and a rudimentary wooden fence surrounded the town .
Still, Brightwood was kept safe and clean. The local elves often liked to think this was largely due to their own lofty standards, which the other races could never quite manage to meet. Those other races that resided there were all considered to be collectively lesser than the elves, according, of course, to the elves themselves. The humans were too easily tainted by their corrupting desires, the dwarfs were too concerned with perpetuating their warrior-image, false as it may be, and the occasional forest denizen who had grown weary of the woods was little better than a drunken beast.
Naturally, tensions had formed between the elves and the other races. Despite their efforts to all get along and understand each-other, they never quite could. So, the races mostly kept to themselves.
There was, however, one thing they all agreed on: only the truly desperate, or truly mad would dare enter the woods without good reason. Even hunters always made certain they never lost sight of town, and never strayed far from the roads. Tales of terror, of inexplicable beasts and beings, and whispered rumors of unholy happenings were known to all, so-much so, that the surrounding forest was commonly known as The Wicked Woods.
But Brightwood was safe, and Brightwood was clean...and nothing bad or unexpected ever happened there...or so the elves liked to think.