The Witches of Brewer's Bog
"Could 'ear the last fool to walk into the bog screamin' for three days. For the first few hours he was screamin' for help. Then he was screamin', an' beggin' to be killed. Then he was just screamin'." - Trevor Kilmock, Calverton villager
Calverton is a village resting in a bend of Calvert Creek about forty miles upstream of where it empties into the Gelon Sea. North of the village is an ancient bog known to the locals as Brewer's Bog, so named because local whiskey makers would venture into the bog to harvest blocks of peat for their whiskey. At least they did a hundred years ago. Before the witches came.
A century ago the people of Calverton ventured into the bog for hunting, peat, and foraging, and in times of raiders, the villagers could flee into the bog for safety. A single road ran through the bog. It was wide, well cared for, and made a winding trail from Calverton to Shaleport. At this time Calverton was home to a benevolent crone, who used hedge-magic, and knowledge of herbs and plants to heal the sick and treat various maladies.
According to the legend the crone was courted by the lord's son. They fell in love and the son swore that once he was lord they would be together. However, this was not to be. When the lord found out his son had sworn himself to a commoner he flew into a rage. The lord sent soldiers to exile the crone from the village and sent his son away to foster with a nearby ally while he arranged a suitable marriage.
When the soldiers arrived at the crone's home they battered down the door, dragged her outside, and brutalized her while her home burned. She cried and begged them to let her speak with the lord's son. She promised that if she could just speak to him all would be well. They would not let her. They told her he had been sent to marry a princess and she was to leave Calverton and never return. The crone's heart broke into a thousand pieces and with nowhere else to go the crone fled into the bog with naught but her anger and sorrow for company.
Years passed and the lord died quietly in his bed of old age. His son returned to claim his birthright and brought with him his wife, not a princess, but merely the second daughter of a minor lord from the south. A month after the new lord took his place as ruler of Calverton the crone returned too, but her years in the bog had not been kind to her. Her hair, long ago black and silky, was stringy and slimy. Her skin, which had been flawless and pure as the driven snow, was now covered in warts and the color of a frog's belly. Her teeth, once straight and white, once were now long and broken. The crone's body had been twisted by a dark combination of grief, anger, and magic. When her old lover saw the crone he was horrified and again banished her back to the bog.
This time the crone refused to go quietly. A fight broke out, and before it was done the crone was wounded, bleeding badly, and three of the new lord's men were dead. Her wounds were dire so the crone retreated to her bog, but she laid out a warning for any who would follow: the bog is mine, little lord. Every tree. Every rush. Every pool, and so will it be with every man, woman, or child. The next day, what had once been a well-maintained road was in such a state of disrepair it couldn't be traveled. Men were sent into the bog to clear it but none returned.
The Lord knew it was the crone, so he sent men into the bog to kill her. None returned. Over time people would wander into the bog, to harvest peat, or rushes, or hunt, and they would never be seen again. Eventually, the villagers stopped going into the bog with the one exception of women betrayed by their lovers and husbands. When a woman whose heart has been broken by a lover enters the bog, legend says, the crone finds her and teaches her. The woman learns the mystic arts and the herbs and the plants and soon becomes a crone herself. In this way, the number of witches in the bog has grown over the decades. Some say if you look into the bog early on a foggy morning you can see the witches going back to their hut, but don't look too hard, lest you're seen by the witches of Brewer's Bog.
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