The Gnarled Old Crone
A twisted, ancient witch of swamps and cauldrons, of curses and transformations. She does not steal—she collects, shaping those she takes into new and terrible forms. Beneath the pale light of the shifting moon, she stirs her Endless Cauldron, speaking the words that unravel flesh and remake the soul.
Titles:
- The Black-Toothed Hag (Witch of the Forgotten Words) – Marked by a crooked grin of black, rotting teeth, she speaks spells that reshape reality and twist the Wyrd itself.
- The Weaver of Night and Bone (Mistress of the Moon’s Shadow) – Wears a cloak woven of darkness, lined with tiny bones that whisper in the wind. She watches from the shadows, waiting for the moment to reshape what is hers.
- The Keeper of the Endless Cauldron (Mother of Change, Devourer of the Old) – Holds a great black iron cauldron, from which nothing escapes unchanged.
Realm – The Hollowed Bog:
A swamp of endless mist, thick with unseen creatures and half-formed things. The trees grasp like skeletal hands, their leaves dripping with black ichor. The ground is soft, hungry, and the air smells of old magic, damp earth, and decay. At its center, upon a throne of twisted roots, the Crone’s Cauldron bubbles, waiting for the next thing to become something new.
- The moon is always present, but it shifts phases unpredictably, changing the rules of the realm.
- The waters are alive, reflecting not what is there, but what could be.
- The trees whisper secrets, promising power to those who listen, and doom to those who do not.
Huntsmen of the Crone:
- The Moon-Hollowed Hounds – Hairless, emaciated wolves with glowing, full-moon eyes. They track their prey not by scent, but by memory, and their breath smells of steamed herbs and boiling potion.
- The Wretched Sisters – Twisted, melting figures, their limbs too long, their faces ever-changing. They whisper promises of transformation, calling the Lost home to the Cauldron’s embrace.
Reason Why She Takes Humans:
She believes that the world is unfinished—that humans are raw material, waiting to be perfected. Those she takes are melted down, reshaped, twisted into new things. Some become beasts, some servants, and some are simply stirred into the Cauldron, their essence used to fuel her endless work. To her, perfection is a process, and no one escapes it for long.
What Kind of Fetch She Leaves Behind:
The Crone’s Fetches are wrong, always off in a way that cannot be ignored.
- Some are made of knotted roots and vines, their veins running with black sap.
- Others are shaped from wet clay, their flesh soft, unfinished, their faces shifting in the moonlight.
- Many carry eyes that do not belong to them—the eyes of cats, drowned things, or creatures that were never human.
Her Fetches are not copies—they are prototypes, imperfect things still changing, waiting for the moment when the Crone calls them back to finish her work.