The Rooted Crone

A tale told to halfling children to help curb their early wanderlust...

Long, long ago, in the Age of the Ancients, when the world was young and pure, the great races of Elves, Dwarves, Giants, and Dragons roamed Aethria in peace. They worked their powerful magics to shape the mountains, rivers, and forests, making a world of beauty and wonder. And deep within the heart of a vast, enchanted forest, there lived a guardian spirit—a wise and powerful figure known to the Ancients as Mother Thornroot.
Mother Thornroot was a friend to all that grew and blossomed. Her long hair flowed like tangled vines, and her fingers took root in the soil as she walked, bringing flowers and trees to life with every step. The trees whispered to her, the rivers sang in her honor, and the animals danced in her presence. She was the protector of all things wild, a gentle spirit who loved the forest like her own child.
But as the Ancients became busy with their own creations, they began to neglect Mother Thornroot's forest. They dug deeper into the mountains, and their magic crafted great cities, towering above the land. The forest was no longer sacred; trees were felled for lumber, rivers diverted, and the animals fled. Slowly, the once-great guardian's heart turned bitter and dark. Her once-kind eyes grew cold, her gentle voice twisted into a dark whisper, and she became known as the Rooted Crone.
In her anger, the Crone cursed her forest to trap any who entered it. She twisted the roots and vines, filled the rivers with shadows, and taught the creatures of the wood to serve her will. She whispered to the night, calling the souls of those who dared to cross her into her thorns and branches, never to escape. Her forest grew dense and tangled, alive with her magic, and soon, none dared to venture close.
And so, for centuries, the Rooted Crone's forest remained a forbidden place, until the Ancients grew weaker and faded from the world, making way for the young races like us halflings to walk the land. But though the Ancients vanished, the Crone's dark magic remained. Her forest lay in wait, hungry and eager to lure any soul foolish enough to wander too close.

A Price Is Always Paid...

This is the story of Farwyn Goodfoot, a curious and fearless halfling boy, who lived many ages after the Ancients had passed.
Farwyn Goodfoot was as adventurous as he was clever, but he didn’t always listen to his mother’s warnings. “Stay close to the village, Farwyn,” she’d say. “There’s dark magic in the forest.” But the young halfling longed to see what lay within the ancient woods. He’d heard whispers from the elders about a place where trees were so thick and tall they blocked out the sky, and he was determined to see it for himself.
One autumn evening, when the light of the setting sun cast long shadows across the village, Farwyn sneaked away. The forest loomed tall and dark before him, and as he crossed into the trees, a strange chill filled the air. Shadows seemed to stretch longer, and every leaf and branch rustled with whispers of warning.
“Farwyn… Farwyn…” they seemed to hiss, as though the trees themselves knew his name.
But Farwyn pressed on, laughing to himself. “Who’s afraid of a few shadows and branches?” he chuckled, though his voice wavered.
Deeper and deeper he went, until he could no longer see the last rays of the sun. Only shadows surrounded him now, and a silence settled like a heavy blanket, broken only by a quiet, eerie whispering. He stopped, his heart pounding, when he noticed the roots around his feet seemed to shift, slowly writhing like snakes.
Then he heard it: a voice, raspy and low, echoing through the trees.
“Who… dares… to enter my woods?”
Farwyn’s courage nearly failed him then, but he straightened up and said, “It’s just me, Farwyn Goodfoot! I only wanted to see your woods for myself!”
The voice laughed, a sound like branches snapping in a storm. “Oh, Farwyn Goodfoot, brave and foolish child. Do you know who I am?”
Farwyn gulped, but shook his head. “N-no,” he stammered, “but you sound… familiar.”
“I am the Rooted Crone, child of thorn and shadow,” the voice hissed, drawing closer. “Once, I was a guardian of all things green, but now I am the keeper of those who wander too far.”
Out from the dark stepped the Crone herself. Her body was twisted with roots and bark, her hair a crown of tangled branches, and her eyes glowed like ghostly fire. Farwyn took a step back, his heart pounding like a drum.
“Tell me, little Farwyn,” she purred, bending low to look him in the eye, “why should I let you go? All who enter my forest become part of it. The trees hunger, the roots ache for souls. I think you’ll make a fine addition.”
Farwyn tried to run, but his feet wouldn’t budge—the roots had twisted around his ankles. His clever mind raced, and he cried out, “But I don’t belong to your forest, great Crone! I’m just a halfling, and I only came to see the beauty of your woods!”
The Crone paused, her eyes narrowing. “Flattery?” she sneered. “You think words can free you from my grasp?”
But Farwyn wasn’t finished. “I see you have much power here, O Rooted Crone. So powerful that even a halfling like me heard stories of you far beyond these trees. Surely one such as yourself doesn’t need a little halfling like me. I would only add a small piece to your forest… hardly a worthy prize.”
The Crone cocked her head, intrigued. “Small you may be, but you are clever, Farwyn Goodfoot,” she said. “Perhaps there is another way… but you must pay a price.”
“Anything!” Farwyn agreed quickly, though he had no idea what the Crone might want.
“A piece of your soul,” she hissed. “A sliver of your spirit to bind you forever to this place, so that even when you leave, a part of you remains.”
Trembling, Farwyn agreed, knowing it was the only way he’d escape. The Crone leaned close, her breath cold and earthy, and touched her wooden claw to his chest. Farwyn felt a strange, aching pull in his heart, like part of him was being drawn out, leaving him colder and emptier.
Then, the roots loosened, and the shadows parted, revealing a path back to the village.
Farwyn didn’t look back. He ran all the way home, feeling the cold place in his heart where the Crone’s curse lingered. From that day on, he never spoke of his adventure, but he grew quieter, and he would sometimes feel the urge to return to the woods. Sometimes, at night, he could still hear her voice whispering in the leaves: “You owe me, Farwyn Goodfoot. I shall call you home one day…”

The Warning...

And so the story ends, dear children. Never venture too close to the woods, for the Rooted Crone waits there still. She remembers the promises made by Farwyn Goodfoot and longs for more halfling souls to keep her company in her forest. So when you see the shadows grow long and hear the whispers in the trees, remember Farwyn’s tale, and know that the Crone is watching.