The Thirteen Covens

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In the hushed corners and half-forgotten paths of Areeott, beneath the tidy surface of streets and orderly towns, dwells something ancient and inevitable—the Witch Covens. They've always been here, so woven into the fabric of the land and its history that nobody quite knows when they first arose. People don’t question their presence any more than they question why the Agriss Mountains remain eternal sentinels over the valleys. They simply know enough to avoid questions, avoid troubles, and—if luck is good and caution true—avoid their attention altogether.   Thirteen, it is whispered, are their number. Thirteen distinct covens known and named, though wise heads often claim there are more—secret offshoots, rogue practitioners, wandering daughters and sons of distant traditions who never took to the formal structures. Yet "Thirteen" is what people speak, quietly and reverently, around firesides and in shadowy tavern corners, as though even numbering them aloud might somehow invoke unwanted eyes.   To outsiders, these covens might seem merely relics of superstition, rural folklore spun by isolated villagers or wary travelers, but to the people of Areeott, they are as real as frost in winter or thunder in summer. These covens are not foreign things imposed upon the land—they are as rooted as the eldest trees and as persistent as the ever-present mists that wrap the valleys in quiet secrecy.   Each coven holds its own territory, its own practices, its own cryptic language of signs and rites. Many have existed for so long, their origins are lost to memory, replaced by legends half-whispered, half-forgotten. What began as rural craft—charms to bless crops or livestock, offerings left at crossroads, whispered remedies for illness—grew deeper, stranger, as it sank roots into the hidden places of Areeott. Now, to speak of witches here is to speak not of fairy tales or idle superstition, but of a truth that runs bone-deep and shadow-long.   The witches of Areeott are not outsiders, nor rebels against order. Indeed, their own codes and structures rival those of the nobility in complexity and formality. Coven bonds run deeper than blood, bound by rites older than written history, sealed in earth, fire, bone, and shadow. To be a witch of one of the Thirteen is to inherit ancient obligations, debts, and rivalries—a tapestry of loyalties and enmities older than kingdoms.   These covens once stood alongside the loyalists of Areeott during the Arin Civil War, offering services and powers no ordinary troops could match. They never fought openly in battle, nor marched under banners, yet their unseen hand guided outcomes and fortunes with frightening subtlety. Always reliable, yes—but rarely easy allies. For when witches agree to a task, they do so according to their own terms, with demands that sometimes left nobles and generals scratching their heads. Odd items taken as payment, curious requests made in the aftermath of victory, and strict conditions that could not be questioned nor negotiated. To ask how their magic works, or why a certain item was requested, is to cross a boundary no wise man dares approach.   And yet, these witches do not move openly through Areeott's public spaces; to see one openly identified as a witch is rare indeed. More often, they blend invisibly into everyday life—bakers, seamstresses, scribes, gardeners, soldiers, clerks—inhabiting all walks of life, living among their neighbors with quiet discretion. Indeed, unless one knows what subtle signs to look for—a charm worn backward, herbs tied at the waist, an unusual pattern woven into clothing—one could pass witches daily without ever recognizing them. Of course, the witches themselves see clearly: they know each other instantly, even across covens, by the faintest whisper of a sign.   There are those witches who flaunt their status subtly—just enough to announce themselves to fellow practitioners, but never enough to arouse suspicion from the uninitiated. To outsiders, these small signs mean nothing; to fellow witches, they speak volumes. Some laugh quietly at these displays, rolling their eyes at younger, prideful witches who walk the razor’s edge between secrecy and vanity.   The people of Areeott have long lived with an uneasy acceptance of this reality. Witchcraft was never persecuted here—no pyres burned nor trials held. Yet there remains a quiet caution, a deeply ingrained respect that borders on dread. For the witches of Areeott, while rarely overtly malicious, wield powers and knowledge that could unsettle even the strongest heart. To cross them, intentionally or otherwise, is to risk subtle retribution: misfortune, strange illnesses, dreams that will not leave, animals refusing to thrive. Even nobility—indeed, even Corvyn Seinrill himself—have chosen the path of pragmatic tolerance. Could he stand against witches, should he choose to? Undoubtedly. Yet would it be worth the inevitable chaos, the web of curses and counter-curses, the disruptions to the quiet order he so meticulously maintains? Certainly not. "Old ways is best ways," say the elders, nodding slowly, wisely, knowingly.   And so the covens quietly maintain their ancient pacts and feuds. Disputes simmer beneath the polite surface of life in Areeott—long, private wars fought with subtle magic, small acts of sabotage, generations-long grudges whispered across hearths and kitchen tables. Yet for all their rivalries, these covens share one unspoken agreement: to guard Areeott against the far greater threats that come from outside, particularly from the dark, unknowable things that roam from Stormwatch Pass and creep from beneath the shadow of the Agriss Mountains.   For the Agriss range harbors a presence far older, far stranger, than even the oldest covens dare fully name. Something wild, untamed, primal—a spirit or force embedded deep in stone and earth, known only through hints and rumors. It is not evil, perhaps; merely indifferent, older than morality, demanding strange rites and cryptic appeasements. The witches of Areeott have long since learned its language, or at least how to placate it—how to leverage this subtle communication for power and protection. Outsiders who sense this force sometimes seek it recklessly, imagining power to claim or control. Yet the witches know better, and it is they who quietly guard the mountains from such foolhardy ambitions, lest the delicate balance they have maintained for centuries be disrupted.   Thus, these covens persist, woven into the tapestry of life in Areeott. Thirteen names whispered quietly, thirteen threads binding together past and present, magic and mundane, shadow and sun. They will outlive kings and kingdoms, patiently keeping watch over their secret domains. Villagers and townsfolk may whisper prayers or charms, offer quiet respects, or make subtle gestures of protection—but mostly, they live their lives in the gentle knowledge that witches will always dwell among them, quietly keeping the peace they helped create, bound by a pact older than memory.  

The Grammar

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They call them Grammars, though the uninitiated might call it magic or sorcery, or some other simple word that fails to grasp the subtlety of these arts. To a witch in Areeott, a Grammar is more than just a collection of spells; it is a way of speaking to the world’s hidden bones, of persuading the mountain winds, of placing one’s voice into the silence where shadows dwell. The land itself has a syntax, an ancient arrangement of symbols and rhythms, and those who study its letters and syllables can coax wonders out of the ordinary and terror out of the mundane.   In the early days, before anyone spoke of covens or pacts, each Grammar was little more than a handful of folk charms and whispered riddles passed from mother to daughter, father to son. A shepherd might know a phrase to calm a sickly lamb, a midwife might use a simple knot-work chant to ensure safe birth, and a reclusive hermit might scribe curious shapes into the bark of oak trees to ward off wandering spirits. These small magics merged and clashed over centuries, forming more elaborate traditions—cautious experiments with name-binding, the weaving of illusions, the harnessing of storms. Slowly, what were once scattered fragments of power coalesced into distinct Grammars, each with its own rhythms, words, gestures, and demands.   Any witch worth the name knows at least one Grammar well, though many dabble in more. Some Grammars revolve around the careful crafting of objects: ribbons knotted with intention, jars sealed with incantations, or carved bones marked with runes that hold memories of the departed. Others deal in fleeting things like breath and silence, shaping illusions from the space between heartbeats. The Emberwise, for instance, prefer a Grammar of fire and transmutation—raging flames or simmering embers that reshape the world with their fierce heat. The Veiled Daughters speak a Grammar of mirrors and glamours, words that ensnare the senses and slip unseen through the cracks of perception. And then there are those who practice that hush of a Grammar, the one that steals away a person’s voice or memory with the gentle closing of a book, leaving no trace but the faint hush of a name unspoken.   To outsiders, these practices seem random, a motley collection of superstition and trickery, but the covens of Areeott know that a Grammar is a living thing, constantly evolving. Knowledge is guarded jealously, for every phrase or gesture a witch reveals might become a tool her rival uses against her. Indeed, among the covens, it’s said that two witches rarely use exactly the same incantation to achieve the same effect, lest they make themselves vulnerable by sharing too many of the same “letters” or “words.” In this way, Grammars can become unique to entire lineages, some cunningly disguised by half-truths or hidden inside lullabies known only to a single coven’s bloodline.   These arts are not taught lightly. One must apprentice under a witch who speaks the Grammar fluently—an elder who decides whether a hopeful initiate is worthy of the vocabulary of storms, the syntax of shadow, the unspoken hush that shatters nightmares. The lessons are rarely straightforward. An aspiring weather witch might be given three coils of braided hair and told to make it rain; success might depend on deciphering a single knot that holds a carefully placed letter of the wind. A charmworker might spend weeks mastering the right tension of thread for a knot, never told what the knot does until they tie it correctly for the first time. Those unprepared for the weight of these hidden rules can hurt themselves or others with a single mispronounced phrase or an inked symbol drawn just slightly askew.   But mastery, once earned, can be devastatingly effective. A witch who commands the Grammar of bones might resurrect ancestral memories at will, calling on echoes of the departed to glean knowledge best left buried. One who knows the Grammar of illusions can, in a single whispered stanza, unravel a rival’s sense of place and time. Even the simple spells have weight. A small protective charm, formed by two lines and a secret word, might keep nightmares at bay or ensure that a traveler’s path stays hidden from predators lurking in the dark.   Ordinary folk sense the presence of Grammars without truly naming it. They tell stories of how a certain roadside shrine always seems oddly silent, how a particular barn never takes fire no matter how careless its occupants, how a child born under a triple moon can quell an entire orchard’s blight with one lullaby. To the witches, these are the byproducts of their living, breathing craft: footprints of a Grammar left behind by a scuffle or a gift or a cautionary tale.   Between covens, Grammars are both currency and battleground. A new variation on a traditional incantation can tip the balance in an old feud, allowing one side to break a curse that has lingered over a bloodline for decades. Sharing even a fragment of a unique Grammar can cement alliances—or incite jealous rivalry. Rumor claims that certain lines refuse to teach the final stanza of their greatest spells to any one member, forcing two witches to come together if the spell is ever to be completed. Others keep their Grammars locked in coded journals, traded or stolen like contraband between rival covens. In these unspoken battles, knowledge isn’t just power—it’s survival.   Like so much in Areeott, Grammars exist not in dusty tomes or open academies, but in half-hidden lore. The witches guard them as tightly as the dark secrets of the Agriss Mountains. An unwitting outsider might mistake a Grammar for a mere folk custom—some silly superstition about how to tie a harvest wreath or the way to stir a pot thrice counterclockwise. They never realize that in these mundane gestures lie entire lexicons of power, shaped by centuries of practice, nuanced by a thousand cautionary tales.   Those who suspect the truth learn quickly: do not pry, do not push for answers, do not ask a witch to explain the grammar of her craft. Because a Grammar is not a casual discussion topic, nor is it harmless knowledge to dabble with. It is the living language of Areeott’s underbelly, the pulse of old ways that do not need outside validation. The witches walk among everyone, speaking these Grammars into being with quiet gestures and unreadable half-smiles, shaping the fate of the land as surely as any baron or parliament—only without fanfare or recognition, precisely as they prefer.  

The Long Night

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Though the witches of Areeott are bound by ancient pacts and shared heritage, theirs is no fraternity of peace. Beneath the careful civility and subtle nods of mutual recognition lies a centuries-old cold war—a web of quiet hostilities, whispered curses, and carefully calculated sabotage, conducted beneath the public gaze. It is a war waged in dreams, through charms tied in hidden places, and subtle magics so delicate they leave no fingerprints but carry powerful consequences.   This war has no official start, no remembered first blood to mark its beginning. Instead, it evolved naturally from the fierce independence of covens whose rituals, beliefs, and methods grew apart over generations. Old grudges festered in secrecy, nourished by small betrayals, unintended slights, or disputed rites—each woven deeper into the fabric of the land, becoming part of the folklore itself. Yet the witches are nothing if not discreet, and these rivalries are expressed in subtle forms: misfortune in a rival's village, illness that comes and goes inexplicably, an animal born marked with omens that signal quiet retribution.   Ordinary citizens have grown adept at reading these signs. When crops fail without reason, they mutter quietly of witchcraft and trace back their steps, careful not to repeat whatever action may have offended one coven or another. Livestock that refuse to thrive or well-water turning bitter overnight are taken as clear messages, warnings from one coven to another—or sometimes, a warning to a community not to side with the wrong lineage in unseen battles. Yet none dare openly accuse, for who would willingly draw the attention of witches, no matter how just their grievance?   The covens themselves are pragmatic in this warfare, understanding instinctively that overt conflict would invite attention from those who enforce stability in Areeott, namely the vigilant and ever-watchful Garsenda House Guard. Instead, they express hostilities through subtler, darker arts—rites that move through dreams and shadows, curses woven so carefully that their origin is impossible to trace. Magical "accidents" are measured precisely, each action carefully weighed against the inevitable counteraction it will invite. This cycle has continued, spinning out across centuries, a delicate balancing act that no coven dares upset, though each eagerly awaits their rivals to slip just far enough to justify retribution.   The Garsenda House Guard observes these conflicts silently, wary sentinels at the edge of an unseen battlefield. Their agents, particularly the Fate Witches among them, intervene only when necessary—not out of moral judgment or favoritism, but purely to maintain the delicate balance that ensures the realm's greater stability. They are arbiters of this hidden war, tolerating quiet hostilities so long as they remain subtle, manageable, and strictly below the threshold of open conflict.   Some among the covens themselves have attempted to broker peace, but every truce thus far has proven fragile and fleeting. Promises sealed in whispers and rituals collapse under the weight of generations of suspicion. Alliances shift quietly, uncertainly, forming and dissolving like shadows flickering across candlelit walls. The memory of past betrayals is long indeed, and witches, above all, are masters of memory.   Yet for all their internal rivalries, the covens share one grim understanding: when external threats arise—whether from fools meddling in forbidden magics or unnatural things crossing through Stormwatch Pass—they pause their private battles to unite silently against these greater dangers. It is a truce as fleeting and uncomfortable as it is necessary, a momentary alignment of purpose that fades the instant the threat recedes.   Thus, the covens remain locked in their quiet stalemate, caught between mutual hostility and shared necessity. Their secret war, fought in whispers, charms, and subtle omens, is as persistent as the mists of the Agriss Mountains—ever-present, lingering, unending. To outsiders, life continues undisturbed, blissfully unaware of the careful dance of shadows and curses beneath their feet. But to the witches, each new sunrise brings another chapter in their endless, silent struggle.