Witch Subclass: Poppet Master

Witches of this tradition bind poppets, small dolls linked to living flesh by taglocks, and work through them at a distance: scouting, hexing, and casting the beneficent and maleficent effigy rituals without standing in the open. Many come to it through folk magic or hedge practice; others after someone else’s likeness took a blow meant for them.

The Shape of the Absence

The forest here radiates its age, much older than the village. I can feel that the moment I step past the last of the fences and into the trees proper. Qi’Quilan’s edge is one of those thresholds I’ve started to notice, the way a banner-line marks where one lord’s authority ends and another’s begins. On the village side, the trees know they are useful to humans. On this side, the trees do not particularly care.

What Watches Back

The Sun Fly feast is loud tonight. Drums, voices, fat hissing in the coals. I have a bowl of something rich and gamey in my hands and I should eat. Mother always said: eat when there is food, sleep when there is shelter. I will, in a moment. I needed to write this down first while it is fresh.

The Weight of the Shard and the Strength of Many

The Shard is gone. It hissed and popped under the holy water like a dying viper, and with it, the cold, insistent pressure in the back of my mind finally vanished. I argued to keep it—convinced myself I was the only one disciplined enough to manage its influence—but Zoot’s logic was, as usual, annoyingly sound. My family, the Freeblades, taught me that the greatest danger isn’t the enemy’s blade, but the failure to recognize when your own tactical judgment is compromised. I almost failed that test.

The Price of Rashness

The Pitt continues to be a theater of the absurd. We have a new companion, a man named Zoot who was—quite literally spit out of the Dispensary’s portal like an unwanted coin. He is a strange, melodic soul, but in the heat of the pit, his music hummed with a power I didn’t expect. I had to be convinced to step into the fighting ring, but the “test” offered by the gnome Tuvog was too informative to pass up.

The Alchemist’s Process: A Study in Emerald

The floorboards beneath my desk vibrate with the rhythmic thumping of a minotaur’s dance in the common room below. Even through the heavy oak door of my room at the Pitt, the muffled roars of laughter and the clinking of tankards are inescapable. It’s a far cry from the silent, incense-filled libraries of Golden Bay, but the flickering candle on my bedside table provides enough light for the delicate work ahead.

The Poisoned Heart of Seelia

The corruption is purged, though the cost was nearly paid in our own blood.

We tracked the pollution to a natural cave, where the water was so foul it burned the skin. Inside, we found ourselves in a shrine to Seelia, locked behind a door requiring three distinct types of purified water. The path to obtaining them was a trial of both mind and steel. We encountered a Naiad who, despite the desecration of her home, showed us a flickering of grace. She spoke of a “Lord of Filth” and a leader named Kevin—a name that suggests a base, intentional malice behind this blight.

Of Truescales and Tainted Springs

The “Wood Sower” is dead, though its shadow lingers. We returned to the Pitt with the carcass in tow, only to be met with the roar of a blood-sport crowd. A minotaur was dismantling three ratkin with nothing but brute force and horns. It was a stark reminder of the world I now inhabit: one where strength is the only currency that never devalues.

The Wood Sower’s Toll

The second skirmish with my new companions. We handled ourselves well; they perhaps better than I. They seem a less tactical sort, but my mother always said there comes a point where tactics cease to matter and one must simply let the steel fly. They seem well-suited for that.

I am a bit concerned by their mercenary streak, though I suppose it is common enough. I only hope they are not the type to sell others out for the hollow promise of safety and coin. I have seen where that road leads.

Campfire Roast Cockatrice

A simple camp roast for adventurers, treating cockatrice like game fowl with basic seasonings.

Servings: 4

Ingredients

• 1 cockatrice, cleaned and gutted
• 1 tablespoon salt
• 1 teaspoon black pepper
• 3 tablespoons butter or lard
• 4 garlic cloves, crushed
• 3 sprigs fresh thyme or rosemary
• 1 onion, quartered
• ½ cup ale or water

Steps

1. Prepare the fire. Build a good bed of coals from hardwood. You want steady heat, not flames. Set up a spit or arrange rocks to support a makeshift roasting rack over the coals.

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