Three Odd Gables
The Three Odd Gables mark the decaying edge of Port-a-Lucine, where civilization frays and the mists of the Tenebrarum Woods breathe secrets into the city’s bones. At the end of Mill Street—past the forgotten weaver’s yard, beyond the wrought-iron fences cloaked in ivy—stand three warped, leaning houses that should not remain standing and yet always do. This is where the coven lives.
The locals do not speak of them. Children dare each other to knock at the gables' gates and flee before twilight. No one remembers the last person who did not run fast enough.
The Coven: The Sisters Vermillion
- Mother Nain: Oldest of the three, veiled in veined muslin, eyes like cracked glass. She “remembers things that haven't happened yet,” and trades memory for prophecy.
- Griselle Witherthrush: Wears the skin of a former opera singer, too-tight and glamorous. Collects voice boxes and secrets. Her song can fracture minds.
- Toadmaw Peg: Squats rather than walks. Covered in barnacles, spines, and growths. Has a taste for mothers' regrets and stillborn dreams. She speaks through frogs that crawl from her throat.
They offer help—for a price. Cures, fortunes, lovers returned, rivals ruined… but always at a cost far greater than the bargain first appears.
The Three Odd Gables are not just houses—they are wounds in reality, slowly festering at the edge of Port-a-Lucine, where the boundaries between want and horror blur. The coven that dwells within them preys on desperation and dresses their curses in lace and perfume. Their aid is often sought, always regretted. In a city obsessed with image and illusion, the hags offer the one thing no one dares face: the truth—unmasked, unvarnished, and final.
Architecture
Each gable leans at an unnatural slant, their blackened shingles like beetle wings, their windows warped and blinking with dim, amber candlelight. The three structures share a common, crooked garden where nothing grows except black poppies, fungus-covered effigies, and toothlike stones.
- The First Gable (Grim Ivy): Covered in choking vines and rotting ivy, this house hums faintly with whispered arguments. Inside, the walls pulse like flesh, and the hearth never produces warmth.
- The Second Gable (Ashcap): A sharp-roofed, skeletal frame of burnt timbers. Shadows here stretch against the candlelight rather than flee from it. A bell rings at midnight, though there is no tower.
- The Third Gable (Miregut): Sagging and swollen, this gable smells of wet moss, brine, and blood. The door appears different to each visitor—sometimes locked, sometimes open, sometimes watching.
Each house connects below the ground via a root-choked crypt where the hags gather over cauldrons fed by bones and stolen memories.
Defenses
Mysteries and Magic
- The houses move. Not just inside, but within space. Doors open onto wrong streets. Visitors emerge from cellars years later, or into someone else's home.
- Every gable hosts a mirror that does not reflect the present, but either the subject’s worst mistake or future downfall.
- Their garden blooms only after someone dies, and petals whisper names.
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