The Hag's Tale

When Tarsakh with its rains rinses the sky

Of Ches’s chill when dormant roots were dry

And drenches ev’ry gnarling vein with mead

A honey sure to sire bees to feed

Pollen from nubile shoots and buds

The young sun shining…but on too much blood

When lilacs out of dead hands bloom

A flowery shelter serves as slain mother’s tomb

How can you not say: Tarsakh is the cruelest month

My childhood was idyllic, growing up homesteaders in a land without name, later called the Savage Frontier, later called the Vostewylde, later called the Lord’s Alliance. It was many, many years ago. We lived a simple life – three generations under one roof; an uncle and cousins nearby; laughter always around the corner; toiling in the earth and woods for our food, shelter, and warmth; cold clear swimming holes to clean the day’s grime; and a story to end the evening. I learned my best recipes then, yes I did! Some winters were long and harsh, but we wanted for naught. My parents prayed to one of the old gods in times of plenty and times of need, but I cannot recall their ways. Life was lived in a golden glow, yes, yes, yes. 

Until the wars came, hmm. A forgotten affair over pride or ego or who could add more titles to their name. We survived during those bleak years, but afterwards came the lost generation. It always happens this way: an aimless group of traumatized men, boys really, boys! Some formed into little bands and preyed upon the land. They hit our homestead in the spring, killed my parents, used me, and left me for dead. Dead, dead, dead. 

I don’t know what happened over the next year but when my mind cleared I was living in filth among the ashes of our home, caring for skeletons. It was spring. I couldn’t have been more than fifteen. I’m not sure how I had survived. I spent a week cleaning myself up, burying the bones of my family, and grieving. In that time I felt a clarity like never before and recalled the leader of the band that murdered my family: he was a half elf, missing a finger on his right hand and with a terrible, reptilian eye serving for one lost. I swore vengeance, promising never to rest until my homestead was restored and Reptile-eye slain. Come, come, come!

I’ll skip over the many years I traveled, to Chelimber of Old, the Lonely Moor, to the Hill people…suffice to say I grew in power and learned secrets no mortal should hear. Shh, shh, shh. I also learned the name of the reptile-eye half-elf. Vallzan. When I tracked him down and confronted him, thinking my power would destroy him, he bested me, breaking my back with some infernal strength. For what I had not learned was that he had made a pact with a demon. To mock my promise, he brought me back to my old homestead. I watched, paralyzed, as he pissed on my parents’ graves and laughed. A second time, he left me for dead. Hurt, hurt, hurt!

I won’t explain how or where I managed it, for fear that others may attempt the same, but during the following months I learned the secret of the Undying. It gave me great and terrible power, but also bound me to my place and to my promise: my family’s old homestead and the death of Vallzan. 

With my power limited outside Hag’s Glen, I had little luck in piercing through to the world that does not pass by my abode. And so I lived for a long, long time. So long! Every now and then I would learn a snippet of Vallzan. I learned the name of his demon master, Fraz’Urb’Luu, early on. But other times, a century would pass with nothing. I was cruel at times, and also kind. I grew bored and toyed with travelers, or sometimes offered them refuge. Life lost meaning. If a traveler commented on my age I would consume their youth and laugh. Other times I would be forgiving, and bless a passerby with unnatural luck for months to come. I was twisted by my power, but also by hopelessness. 

And then your little group came by. Come, come, come! And I felt something. I’m not sure where or how, but I knew you by the stars. I saw your faces in my woodwork, in the swirls of rock in the riverbed. I knew I must offer you some of my treasures: the giant’s speaking stone, the iron key, or the bonding of our blood. I do not know where the voice came through me that offered you guidance, and I only recalled after you left what I had said. It startled me by its novelty—something could impose on my place of power? But it also delighted me. Something was happening here. What it was? For the first time in a long while, it was not exactly clear. But every time, there was this motherly presence, the form or feeling of a woman’s embrace. 

Twenty five years later we believe it is some trapped goddess seeking a return through you all. Again, I know not why I am sensitive to her call, though Ironica’s question has made me think it may have to do with my past. Or my future. Useless, I know. Such are the ways of these things. Fool, fool, fool! 

My continued life is proof that Vallzan goes on living as well – he must have also found unnatural long life through his infernal contract wtith the demon Fraz. I had learned little in almost three centuries, until you all showed up with a not-so-innocent Orog. The Red Tusk of the High Moor had managed to summon an Aspect of Fraz, who offered Golun-dal his patronage. I could smell it on him when you brought him to me. To steal a warlock from another patron is a terrible slight, and from my enemy’s demon! Imagine my delight. Maybe this would stir the pot some. So I took Golun-dal for my own and set him on the trail of Vallzan. 

I will let Golun-dal tell what he has learned.