Broonie Offerings

"You be nice to the little-one, lad. You’d hate to see him angry, believe me."

A tradition as old as ruin itself, the nightly offering to the Broonie is a curious mixture of kindness and caution. These small, magickal beings from The Otherworld often regarded as shy spirits of fortune or petty vengeance, have left an indelible mark on Everwealthy households. Whether they truly exist is irrelevant to most, for to deny the Broonie hospitality is to invite mischief, and to embrace them may court quiet blessings. Each night, from the stone manors of Opulence to the soot-black hovels of Driftrow, the people place small gifts of food, cream, honey, or sweetbread, on their windowsills or hearths. It is a rite without priest or pageantry, passed by whispered word and hard experience. Those who ignore the tradition invite the Moloch, a twisted form of the Broonie, into their homes. And once the Moloch comes calling, all the doors in the world won’t keep your luck from spilling out.

History

Though no written record can agree on when the first Broonie visited our hearths, nearly every region of Everwealth has its own version of the tale. In the frost-slick caves of the north, Dwarfish oral traditions speak of “Lanewalkers,” quiet fae who braided children’s hair and mended boots in exchange for cream. Among the drift-rafts of the coastal folk, whispered stories tell of “Saltlings,” who kept fish from rotting so long as they were greeted with honeycakes and a clean deck. Scholars of the Faewilds suggest the Broonie might be offshoots of a more ancient, nomadic fae species, small, magickal beings whose benevolence is as unpredictable as their presence. The tradition became widespread in the years following The Great Schism, when superstition flourished alongside struggle. Whole towns in the borderlands reportedly vanished overnight, their homes torn apart, doors broken inward, and hearths left cold. Survivors spoke of green figures, too fast to catch, too cruel to reason with, who punished “ungrateful hosts.” Whether the Broonie had truly turned to Molochs, or these were exaggerations of desperate minds, none dared test the theory twice. Over time, what was once a rare custom became ritualized. Mothers sang “Broonie’s Lullaby” as they left crusts on the sill. Traveling smiths left berries and bread atop their wagons. Even the noble courts of Opulence adopted the practice in their own way, offering polished stoneware filled with wine and sugar to the hearth before grand feasts, so no guest (seen or unseen) might feel slighted.

Execution

The ritual is quiet, often wordless. At nightfall, shortly before locking up the home, a member of the household places a small offering near a hearth, window, or doorstep, any boundary between the home and the wild. The act must be done with genuine intent; merely going through the motions is said to offend the Broonie more than being forgotten outright. The container should be clean but plain. The offering, simple, fresh, and accessible. Once placed, the bowl or plate is left untouched until sunrise. If the contents are gone by morning, it’s seen as a sign of good favor. If they remain, especially if they appear spoiled or disturbed, it may indicate offense has been taken. In such cases, families often sweep their entire homes, leave fresh offerings three nights in a row, and light a small “welcome taper” candle to invite the Broonie back in peace. Some rural towns have adopted a weekly communal offering, a shared feast at the edge of the village, left out beneath the stars for any wandering spirit to enjoy. It is a blend of hospitality and dread. Not out of fear that the Broonie will bring death, but that they might take something subtler, luck, health, warmth in the bones, love between kin. Things only missed once they are gone.

Components and tools

The offerings are deliberately simple, meant to please without presumption. A chipped bowl of goat’s cream. A crust of honey-smeared bread. A splash of elderberry wine if the harvest was kind. Placed at thresholds, hearths, or windows, these tokens must be unclaimed, undisturbed until morning. More elaborate gifts, gold trinkets or spices, are considered offensive, as if one were trying to buy favor rather than offer it freely. The container is just as important: earthenware, wood, or unpainted tin are preferred. No iron, no silver. Never anything cursed.

Participants

This is a household affair. Parents pass the habit down to their children like brushing hair or lighting the stove. Elders often lead the first rites, telling wide-eyed youngsters the tale of the green little man who drowned a miser in his own stewpot. There are no officiants, but folk herbalists and kitchen witches may offer extra guidance: a sprinkle of clover, a whispered thanks, a door left ajar to signal welcome. Travelers perform their own versions on the road, leaving sweets beneath stone cairns or tied to low branches near camp.

Observance

The Broonie Offering is a nightly rite, performed just before rest. There is no set calendar, no moon or season. It is simply... ongoing. In times of hardship, famine, war, or plague, the practice becomes even more devout, as fear makes fertile ground for superstition. Special attention is paid during the Turning Month, when the veil between worlds is said to thin. During this time, many leave extra portions, clean their homes meticulously, and whisper their wishes into the offering bowls before sleep.