Viktal

Viktal survives on subsistence farming, foraging, and cautious trade. The villagers are self-reliant but superstitious, always checking omens and reading the guts of birds for guidance. They do not trust outsiders and rarely let strangers stay the night.

Most villagers believe that Mother protects them—but just as many fear she watches only to punish disobedience.

A common Tepestani saying is:

“She gave us peace. We owe her everything—especially our silence.”

Since the arrival of Mother, a being the villagers both worship and fear, Viktal has been transformed:

• A church-turned-shrine serves as the House of Mother’s Mercy, where parish-knitters lead rituals of thanksgiving, appeasement, and sometimes, penance.
• Offerings of food, blood, and treasured heirlooms are left at the Mother’s Tree weekly—more during lean seasons, or when things go missing.
• Twice a year, during the Blessing of the First Crops and the Turning Feast, one villager is chosen to go into the woods to “join with Mother.” They do not return. The village is always silent afterward—but the harvest always improves.

To speak ill of Mother is to court disaster. Her Whisperlings—twisted, fey-like spies in animal skins—are said to report such treasons back to her.

Viktal’s children grow up fast.

• They play games like Hide from Her Hands and Seven Knocks on the Hollow Tree, whispered rhymes about the old fey that once tormented their ancestors.
• They learn the signs of glamour and wards of bone and blood, passed down from a time before Mother claimed the land.
• Many wear iron charms or thorns on string—tokens their parents hope will protect them from being taken.

The older generations remember the before-times: leaner, crueler days when hags and cruel fae prowled unchecked. They speak of children taken in the mist, of cattle led into rivers, and of songs that made men walk into the woods, never to be seen again.

They do not speak of it loudly.

Tucked between the whispering trees of the Tepestani Forest and the fog-laced foothills of the Tir Fields, Viktal is small, tight-knit, and uneasy. Its stone cottages and moss-capped barns cluster like huddled animals around a central green dominated by the Mother’s Tree—a colossal, hollow-bellied oak draped in charms, offerings, and the bones of small animals.

Viktal looks idyllic to the untrained eye:

• Neatly tended gardens brim with root vegetables and bitter herbs.
• Wind-chimes of carved wood and woven grass dangle from every eave.
• Smoke curls from chimneys scented with dried thornapple and myrrh.

But this charm is performance, a veneer of hope over dread. Every door is carved with protective symbols. Every window shutter is latched tight before nightfall. And every child is taught to speak respectfully of Mother, no matter what horrors the dark brings.

Viktal is always wet with fog, the scent of damp moss and cold stone ever-present. Crows circle overhead in unnatural numbers. Whispers echo in the trees—sometimes in voices that sound familiar.

At night, the village falls silent. Lanterns are extinguished. No one sings. Even the dogs do not bark. Those foolish enough to wander after dark might glimpse:

• A woman with roots for legs, weeping softly in the fields.
• A shadow taller than a house, moving silently between trees.
• A child’s toy, freshly mended, resting on the doorstep—though no child has lived in that house for years.