Arin Folk Traditions

Old Ways, Is Best Ways

"I have walked through cursed ruins, faced bandits in the dead of night, and even fought a wraith once—but nothing unnerved me like Areeott. The people there do not speak of fear, yet they live as if they are always being watched. They leave food for things they do not name. They cover their mirrors after dark. They refuse to walk certain roads, though they will not tell you why. And gods help you if you hear your own name whispered in the trees—because if you ask who called it, they will only look at you with pity and say, ‘You should not have answered.’ I spent a winter stranded in those mountains. I left as soon as the roads were clear, and I have sworn never to return. Not because they were unkind, not because they were hostile—because they knew something I did not. And I do not ever wish to learn what it was.

— Sebran Callow, Mercenary and Reluctant Survivor of an Areeott Winter

The people of Areeott have long understood a simple truth—the world is not only what is seen, but what is felt, what is whispered, what lingers between the moments of certainty. Long before outsiders sought to bring their gods and their laws, the Arin had already made their agreements with the land, the spirits, and the forces that shape existence. Their traditions are not written in books, nor preached from temples—they are carved into the bones of the mountains, whispered over firelit feasts, and stitched into the very fabric of daily life. No Arin child grows up without knowing the weight of a promise. In their world, words have consequence, and oaths are not spoken lightly. To name something is to call its attention; to swear upon something is to bind yourself to it. This is why the old families still keep their secret names, known only to those who must, and why a pact sealed in silence is stronger than one shouted before witnesses. It is also why the oldest among them still watch carefully when a child is given their first name—for sometimes, the land itself listens, and if it does not approve, it may take that name away. Fire holds sacred meaning in Arin tradition, not as a tool of destruction, but as a witness and purifier. It is said that when the first clans took root in the mountains, they did so by firelight, calling forth their ancestors to stand guard over their bloodlines. Even now, when an oath is made in earnest, a candle is burned beside it—if the flame flickers unnaturally, the spirits are watching. If it gutters out, the oath was a mistake, and the one who made it should reconsider their words before the spirits do it for them. The Arin know that not all roads are meant to be traveled. There are paths in the mountains that no map records, trails where the stones shift underfoot as if deciding whether a traveler is welcome. Some roads lead where they should not—to places where the past still breathes, where old debts remain unsettled. It is taught that should a traveler find themselves on such a path, they must not look back, nor speak their own name aloud. To do so is to risk calling attention to oneself in a place where things should not have eyes. Death is not feared among the Arin, but it is respected. The dead are not gone, merely stepped beyond sight, and it is considered wise to keep their favor. This is why homes leave out a bowl of salted broth on certain nights, a quiet offering to those who came before. It is also why a dying man’s final words must be heeded—not because they are sacred, but because the dead do not like to be ignored. To silence a dying person is to risk that silence becoming a weight upon the household, a whisper at the edges of sleep that never quite fades. There are nights when the land is thinner, when the boundary between worlds is less certain. These nights are marked not by a date on a calendar, but by signs—crows gathering where they should not, the sound of water running against the current, the feeling of being watched in an empty room. The wise do not go out on these nights without a lantern and an offering of silver. The foolish do not return at all. The hearth is the heart of every Arin home, not only in warmth but in spirit. It is believed that every house has its own guardian presence, a thing neither fully seen nor spoken of, but known all the same. It is given small offerings—a crust of bread left beside the fire, a pinch of salt in the threshold. A contented hearth-guardian brings fortune, steadiness, and health. A neglected one is a far more dangerous thing. Superstitions are not idle habits among the Arin; they are lessons passed through generations. Never leave a blade unsheathed after dusk—it invites quarrels. Never let a shadow cross a newborn’s crib—it marks them. Never write a name in ash—it will be forgotten by all but the wrong things. If you wake in the night to find something standing over you, do not move, do not breathe, do not let it know you are awake. These are not warnings to be tested. They are instructions for survival. Not all spirits are to be feared. Some are merely watchers, some are guardians, some are hungry. The Arin know how to tell the difference. A restless spirit will leave signs—food spoiling too quickly, whispers in the walls, the scent of burning where there is no fire. When such signs appear, one must leave an offering before the third day, lest the spirit believe it is being ignored. The old festivals still remain, though their meanings have shifted with time. The Emberfeast marks the end of winter, a time when firelight is carried through the streets to remind the land that warmth has returned. The Winter’s Call is a time of silence, when no one speaks after sundown, so as not to wake the things that should remain sleeping. And the Hearthwake is a night when families gather to honor their ancestors, leaving plates of food on the table for unseen guests. The outside world may not understand, but the Arin do not care. They do not explain their traditions to those who will not listen, nor do they ask for approval. They keep their ways because their ways have kept them. The old magic persists, not in the form of grand spells or rituals, but in the small, daily acts of respect that ensure the world does not turn against them. And so the Arin continue as they always have—quietly, carefully, and with the knowledge that they are never truly alone.