Morrigaine

The woodland east of the fallen city of Narbuk is cursed, on that all who know of it agree – all but the villagers who live near it, that is. According to oral tradition, the hills that overlook the winding Wispernbrook River were once dotted with farmsteads and villages. The waters of the river, besides an abundance of fish, gave good crop yields and watered a multitude of grazers, providing for the hardy country folk of the region. Life there had followed the turning of the seasons for many generations, largely undisturbed, until crusaders of Lumaya came. The target of their ire was a wise woman known only as Morrigaine. No one knew quite where she had come from, but the local farmers knew that she lived in the thick, tangled woodlands just beyond the Wispernbrook’s eastern bank. She lived alone, but was happy enough to welcome people brave enough to seek her out. To those in need, she gave her assistance – a cure for a lingering sickness, a poultice for an oozing wound, a palm-reading, or a simple phrase to recite to purge a crop of blight. In exchange she asked for little. Sometimes food, or herbs. On other occasions she would ask for a lock of hair or old wisdom teeth. Few of the villagers noted how long Morrigaine had lived on the borders of their communities. Despite her aid, their lives were hard and short, and their daily toils kept them from pondering such matters too deeply. Most were just happy with her assistance. Certainly, none questioned when Morrigaine’s payments started to grow more outlandish, for they were still so small when weighed against the support she provided. A drop of blood, a teardrop, a child’s first toy, all of these things were still easily given. And of course, when the disappearances started, the people sought Morrigaine’s help and advice, rather than blamed her. Alas, no trace of any of those who vanished could ever be found, but then that was not in itself outlandish. The Wispernbrook ran quick, and all knew that the hilltops were not safe at night, with wolves and worse on the prowl. Matters came to a head during the Age of Treachery when a band of Sacred Order warriors came. They passed through, stopping at one of the Wispernbrook hamlets for food and ale. Their leader admitted they were on the hunt, seeking out a dangerous necromancer who had escaped the destruction of Narbuk and the slaughter that had been wreaked upon the dark sorcerers there. Without warning, the villagers rose up against the Sacred Order warriors, setting about their erstwhile guests with knives, scythes, pitchforks, and mallets. Caught completely by surprise, a number of the crusaders were slain, but they swiftly rallied. Peasants were no match for the armed and armored warriors of blessed Lumaya, and the crusaders swiftly triumphed. They pressed on into the woodlands beyond the Wispernbrook and, after a ferocious hunt, finally tracked down and cornered Morrigaine. The trial that followed was a short one. Morrigaine was accused of witchcraft and necromancy, of having bedeviled the peoples of the Wispernbrook. Mockingly, she pled guilty. The crusaders bound her in heavy chains, and ceremonially cast her into the cold, rushing waters of the dark river. Morrigaine’s tale may have ended there, were it not for one oversight – the crusaders had not succeeded in slaying all the villagers under her thrall. Once they had departed, the survivors of the massacre returned, and were able to unshackle the witch’s body from the riverbed. Freed from the damnable bonds, Morrigaine rose up, more terrible, more beautiful, and more powerful than ever before. There are still farmers living along the Wispernbrook, a small band of hardy folk. They don’t take kindly to outsiders and, when asked, say little of the neighboring forest, or the deathly lights that can sometimes be glimpsed through the trees. Those traveling through that bitter region are well advised to bear sacred tokens of Lumaya on them at all times, to spend each night with a firmly bolted door between themselves and the darkness, and to not heed the mournful cries that are sometimes carried on the wild wind. If they do not, they too may soon find themselves in the thrall of the Witch of the Wispernbrook.