The air in the Forbidden Lands grows thinner as the year wanes, biting with a chill that speaks of the encroaching winter. Following the banishing of the spectral giant and the grueling march from the hills, the weary party finally descended toward the low hills of the southeast.
There, nestled against the northerly bank of a rushing river, lay Hexenwald.
The Burning Man Pyre
The village was a portrait of autumnal decay and preparation. Leaves, past their vibrant peak, crunched underfoot as the party led their sled and donkey through the gates. Unlike many settlements in Ravenland, where outsiders are met with bared steel or fearful locks, Hexenvald pulsed with a quaint, autumnal joy.
In the center of town, a massive ceremonial pyre was being constructed—a towering humanoid shape made of hay and timber. Farmers tossed bundles of grain at its feet, preparing for the Fall Turn Festival, still twelve days away.
Seeking warmth and information, the party followed the scent of roasted meat and the clatter of clay mugs to The Laughing Man, the local tavern.
Silver and Suspicion at The Laughing Man
Inside, the atmosphere was boisterous. Frederenbush, the stout, singing innkeeper, nearly dropped a keg when a silver coin was slapped onto the bar.
“I… I don’t know if I can accept that,” Frederenbush stammered, eyes bulging. “That’s more money than I see come through here in a month! I can’t possibly take such fare.”
Sternberg, already eyeing the ale, didn’t share the innkeeper’s modesty. “You haven’t seen the size of his tabs,” Lucia quipped, gesturing to the dwarf. “And aren’t you about to have a super busy time?”
While the group settled in, Zara remained on edge. In most corners of the world, a Wolfkin is a target or a curse. Here, the villagers merely smiled.
“Hail, Wolfkin,” Frederenbush said with a respectful nod. “I’m sure you might not be used to getting decent treatment, but you’ll find the people of Hexenvald love and respect wolves. Your people are well treated here.”
Zara wasn’t buying the hospitality so easily. “I’m still very suspicious of this town as a whole,” she muttered, though her stern facade was tested when local children tried to sneak a touch of her tail. She looked down at them with a predatory glare. “You don’t mess with other people’s bodies, kids.” They giggled and fled, peeking at her from behind ale barrels.
The Blade of the Ancient Islanders
While the others drank, Rudever pulled a strange, curved shortsword from his pack—a blade he had recovered during their recent trials. Its fatter head and wicked curve caught the eye of a finely dressed trader named Anselm.
Anselm pulled Rudever aside, his eyes glinting with the greed of a man who knows rare steel when he sees it.
“This is indeed a wicked blade,” Anselm whispered, running a finger near the edge. “Intended for hacking and slashing in fights that are up close and personal. The type of blade for someone not afraid to get dirty… to get their fingers wet.”
He pointed to the weathered glyphs on the hilt.
“I believe this is an ancient Aislander design, pre-Blood Mist for sure. If you stay in the village, I have friends in the Hexenvald forest—ladies of the forest—who would be very interested in a purchase like this.”
He spoke of Zora and Emmaline, sisters who lived amongst the trees. The party felt the weight of the suggestion; in these lands, “sisters” in the forest usually meant something much older and more dangerous than simple herbalists.
The Matron of the Temple
The party eventually left the warmth of the tavern to explore the village’s more spiritual side. They were drawn to a well-built structure toward the northeast—the local Temple.
Standing outside was a regal, earthy woman with dark skin and hair, her presence commanding immediate respect. Sternberg recognized her at once as a Canide dwarf, though she wore no clan talismans.
Lucia and Torbin felt a different connection—a resonance of the spirit. They weren’t just looking at a village elder; they were looking at a Raven Sister.
“Welcome to our temple,” she said, her voice carrying a trained politeness. “I am the matron here. I am Halle Breant. I tend to this flock as best I can.”
As the party stood before her, the festive noise of the village seemed to fade. In Hexenvald, the line between the civilized world and the ancient, shadowed secrets of the Ravenlands was beginning to blur.
The air outside the temple was thick with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke as the party stood before the matron.
The Earthy Majesty of Halle Breant
Breant watched the newcomers with eyes that seemed to weigh their very souls. She wasn’t merely a village elder; she was a keeper of the old ways.
Sternberg, usually one to let his coin or his blade do the talking, approached with a rare, measured respect. “Greetings. We’re here to be part of—or experience—the festival. It’s nice to meet you.” He paused, trying to find the right words for a woman who clearly demanded more than tavern pleasantries.
Halle Breant gave them a long, searching look, her “trained politeness” masking a deeper scrutiny.
She trailed off, her gaze lingering on the travelers as if seeing the ghosts of the Blood Mist clinging to their cloaks. In Hexenvald, the hospitality was warm, but the secrets were ancient—and the party had just walked right into the heart of them.
The air inside the temple was thick with the scent of old wax and something sharper—the metallic tang of the Rust Church and the loamy musk of the Raven. It was a sanctuary of contradictions, much like the Forbidden Lands themselves.
The Matron’s Tiding
Breant watched the party with the stillness of a mountain. When she spoke again, she corrected her choice of words, her voice carrying a weight that felt older than the village itself.
“I am the matron of this tiding,” she said. “I look over it as best I can. You come at an excellent time of year. Whether you come for trading, to give reverence to the turn of the seasons, or perhaps to meet the famous sisters that will come in from Hexenvald forest… we welcome you. You can stay for as long as you like, so long as you treat with everyone as you wish to be treated.”
Her eyes hardened slightly, a warning surfacing through her hospitality.
“While we don’t have codified laws here, mischief of any kind will find a short amount of patience. Just be sure that your fun does not encroach on anyone else’s fun, of course.”
Faith in the Shadows
While the rest of the party looked for trouble, Lucia and Torbin looked for the truth. The temple was a strange tapestry of worship. To a casual observer, the trappings of a Wyrm Cult were present, alongside figurines tucked away that suggested the Rust Faith.
But beneath the surface—obfuscated and hidden from those without the eyes to see—were the signs of the Raven. It was a place where all major faiths, and perhaps some darker, forgotten ones, were practiced in a fragile, quiet harmony.
Lucia stepped forward, offering a copper and lighting a candle to “get in” with the local spirits. As she did, the Matron moved with a fluid, practiced grace. To the drunken Sternberg and the weary Rudver, it looked like nothing more than a blessing. But Zara, ever the suspicious watcher, saw the truth.
Hall Breant had slipped Lucia a note.
Lucia caught Zara’s eye and gave a nearly imperceptible nod. The secret was held, for now.
A Restless Night
As evening settled over Hexenwald, the party prepared for the coming night. In a land where the Blood Mist once reigned, “home” is a relative term.
- Sternberg, wrestling with his usual claustrophobia and a belly full of ale, opted for the manger. “Anywhere warm and dry is good by me,” he grunted, though the sight of the hay brought back grim memories for Rudver, who led the donkey, Sled, toward the familiar scent of animal bedding.
- Zara, however, refused the comfort of a roof. Her mistrust of the “respectful” villagers ran deep. “I think that hill spot is good,” she said, pointing to a small rise overlooking the inn. “I don’t trust these people. It’s probably unfounded, but I’ll stay up and watch.” Refusing the hospitality of the village, she climbed a small hillside overlooking the inn. With practiced hands, she built a lean-to to shield her from the fading sun and the biting wind, turning the high ground into a lookout. While the others sought the comfort of hay or hearth, the Wolfkin circled her patch of dirt like a predator, settling in for a night of cold, silent vigilance.
- Lucia and the others retired to the inn, paying their five copper for the luxury of a floor that didn’t move.
As the village fires dimmed and the pyre in the square cast long, dancing shadows against the homes, the party settled in. Somewhere in the dark, Lucia held a folded piece of parchment that likely held the key to their next trial.
The Wolfkin’s Vigil: A Night of Revelations
While the rest of the party settled into the manger or the inn, Zara took to the high ground. From her lean-to on the hill, she watched the village lights flicker out one by one. Her scouting revealed a side of Hexenvald the others had missed.
At the edge of the woods, she spotted Anselm, the trader, meeting with a woman of startling, otherworldly beauty—pale skin, dark robes, and a halo of blonde hair. The air between them was thick with tension.
“How many of the other sisters are on your side?” Anselm asked, his voice trembling with an unearned familiarity.
The woman didn’t answer with words. She struck him—a sharp, stinging slap that echoed in the silence.
“Know your place,” she hissed. “We are not equals in this. You serve me.”
Before Zara could move closer, the woman vanished into a rising mist. Moments later, a different shadow emerged: a massive alpha wolf, ridden by an old woman whose hair was a tangled nest of sticks and black rags. The pack let out a haunting yowl, and Zara, moved by instinct, threw her own voice into the night. A mighty howl tore through the air, met not with a threat, but with a chilling call of acknowledgment from the alpha.
Morning Breath and Bloodless Lies
The next morning, the Laughing Man was anything but jovial. Over a breakfast of forest berries and mead, the innkeeper, Frederenbush, tried to maintain his spirits with a grim joke.
“Eat at your own risk,” he said with a sly grin, gesturing to the berries. “It’s been a while since I was out in the forest myself.”
The laughter was cut short when a young boy burst through the doors, breathless and pale. “Another caravan’s been hit near the edge of the Hexenwald,” he cried. “The restless dead… no survivors.”
As the village elders, Halle Breant and Frederenbush, huddled to discuss the threat, Anselm slunk into the room. A dark, angry mark blossomed across his cheek where the mystery woman had struck him the night before.
Rudver, sensing a rat, didn’t hesitate. “Anselm, what happened to your face?”
Anselm faked a laugh, avoiding Zara’s predatory gaze.
“I was helping to shoe one of the donkeys this morning. The ass caught me with its ass. I feel like an idiot, but I caught this for my troubles.”
The Secret Summons
Amidst the commotion, Lucia finally had a moment to decipher the note slipped to her by the Matron at the temple. It was written in a cipher known only to the Raven Sisters, a language of whispers and shadows.
“Come meet with me before you leave. We have much to discuss. Make sure that only you, or you and the dark knight, come.”
The “dark knight”—presumably Torbin—and Lucia now carry a weight the others do not yet share. Hexenvald is not merely a village preparing for a festival; it is a sacrificial lamb, and the party is standing right at the altar.
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