Son of The Willowcrone

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The Willowcrone of Tuskmorke Sk⦽ven

As the witch of Hala, the Ancient Serpent, burned, an elated Biskop Taico teared up. “What a blessing!” he bellowed, “Praise be to the Iron Tyrant!” He felt truly blessed, giving praise to the Lawgiver for answering his pleas. He spared a moment’s regard for Kontor Naatharak and his Gudkaede, offering them a slow nod of gratitude. His family’s name and honor had been preserved.

While nothing could change the fact that his niece was dead, he refused to let anything dampen his mood. The smokey tears that strung his eyes were but the happy tears born of divine justice being served: the Lawgiver’s work. The fading screams of the Rashemi washed over him with profound relief. He could not help but smile as H’Thana, the Willowcrone of Tuskmorke Skoven, burned to a crisp. But as the Rashemi witch’s flesh flaked away, and though she no longer had lips to speak, nor mouth or tongue to deliver her sorcery, the Biskop’s smile slid from his dour face, for he heard the Willowcrone part from this world with one last curse: “A hex upon you and yours shall be, when the sun doth rise and the moon doth bleed.” 

Spoiler: show

//NPC and scene provided and approved by DM Stygian Witch

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Memories and Curses

Such a grip Anzar had, holding fast to the ouroboros ring upon her ringer, not an hour free from her womb, as if already knowing that one day his mother would be no more. No more than ash in the wind before the cruel judgment of Nordenvall Fane, the Church of the Lawgiver. Such tragic ends are the destiny of the Rashemi of Hazlan. Not many witches of Hala in Hazlan live to a ripe old age, afterall. Why would this story be any different?

Her memories swelled within her still beating, warm heart. The silly songs she would sing as she changed his soiled diapers. His tiny fingers and toes. Kissing the bottoms of his baby’s feet. So precious were the memories. Gifts in death’s embrace are the memories of those we’ve loved. And a power, that shall not be named here, took notice. This is how a hexblade was born. Such curses, born with gifts such as his, do often come with mysterious benefactors.

H’Thana, the Willowcrone of Tuskmorke Skoven, knew her last hour was at hand, as she lay chained and gagged. Two heavily armored Gudkaede stood facing her, never taking their cold eyes off the witch, fearful of her magic, of Myterri’s witch.

Rashemi serfs were building a wooden pyre near, a stake stretching up from the earth to the heavens overhead. One of them remembered all too clearly how the Willocrone had cured her own child of sickness, for the Willowcrone, who had lived in hiding all these years outside of the estate of Ossur Kryillian, had used her home as one of Hala’s hospices for the Rashemi. But there was nothing they could do to help the one who had given her life to help them.

Death does bring gifts to those with love in their hearts. For the beloved, the cracks in one's heart is how the lights gets in, as the bard once sang. All beings suffer, by the very fact that they exist, but for those with love in their hearts, suffering is not without fulfillment and purpose.

When H’Thana took her coven’s vow to ease the suffering of those in need, she knew such a day might come. As she was dragged to the stake, before the pyre’s match was struck, she prayed and gave thanks to Hala, that at least her son lived on.  And Nordenvall Fane would rue the day that they burned H’Thana, the Willocrone of Tusmorke Skoven, at their stake.