HAWTHRYN

Hawthryn: Keepers of the Living Crown
Vaelthyr Imperium
A Codex of the Hawthryn: Skyward Stewards, Wings of the Root
“We do not own the Crown.
We are permitted to live upon her.”
From the poisoned swamps and choked jungles of Myrr’Kael—where the ground itself hungers and the mist remembers names—rise the Hawthryn, hawk-folk of wing, oath, and vigilance. Born to the sky yet sworn to a single place, they are a people shaped by height and consequence.
They do not wander.
They do not conquer.
They endure.
Their dominion is not land, but stewardship.
They call their sovereign order the Vaelthyr Imperium.
I. Vaelthyr, She Who Bears the Sky
At the heart of Myrr’Kael stands Vaelthyr, the Living Crown—an ancient world-tree whose roots coil through stone and bone, whose boughs fracture storms, whose breath bends the seasons. Entire districts of Hawthryn life are grown into her bark and carved into her limbs: wind-bridges braided from living vine, open courts with no walls, and aeries where truth is spoken because lies cannot cling in open air.
To the Hawthryn, Vaelthyr is a goddess.
Not distant.
Not abstract.
Living.
“She shelters us.
Therefore, we serve.”
For uncounted scores, the Hawthryn lived as her chosen wardens. They hunted the Mirebound. They bled in the swamps. They struck down rot so that Vaelthyr might endure. Every scar was a hymn. Every fallen warrior, a root returned to soil.
But even gods can suffer.
Vaelthyr grew vast beyond balance. Her lifeblood thinned. Leaves dulled. Deep within her heartwood, decay whispered.
The Imperium did not pray.
They acted.
II. Gloomdew and Sacred Labor
In the depths of Myrr’Kael roam the Mirebound Colossi—towering amalgams of drowned magic, rot, and half-remembered beasts. They move slowly, but never rest. Within their bodies forms Gloomdew, a viscous arcane essence excreted by the Mirebound and hoarded within their habitats: life twisted, potent, volatile.
Refined and tempered, Gloomdew restores what should not yet wither.
To harvest it was once sacred duty.
Hawthryn wing-bands descended in formation, striking growth-nodes, luring Colossi into open water, and tearing the essence from nests of corruption. Many never returned. Those who did bore scars etched into feather and bone.
Still, it was not enough.
Vaelthyr continued to weaken.
III. Doctrine of the Chosen Hands
Rule within the Imperium rests with the Skycrown Conclave, elders of wing, war, and sap-lore who gather in Vaelthyr’s highest hollow—a chamber open to all winds, where secrets struggle to survive.
It was there that a new doctrine took shape.
The Mirebound were not meant to be fought endlessly.
Gloomdew was something they produced, not something wrested by force.
And Vaelthyr, the Living Goddess, did not demand suffering—only survival.
Then came word of the Furlings of South Rojour.
Otterfolk. Nimble. Clever-handed. Accustomed to slipping through danger unseen. They revered Vaelthyr as the source of all life on Pentara—a goddess they could never reach.
The Conclave saw alignment.
“If Vaelthyr permits us to live upon her,” spoke a Wind-Marshal,
“then she permits us to choose the hands that serve her.”
Thus was born the Otterfolk Doctrine.
IV. The Covenant of Ascent
Every four choruses, twenty Hawthryn flew west. Each carried two Furlings beneath their wings. Forty pilgrims lifted skyward at a time—unbound, unhidden, chanting prayers into the wind.
They sang of the Crown.
They called to their kin below.
They believed they were being carried to paradise.
They were promised a covenant:
Gather Gloomdew for Vaelthyr,
and the Crown shall welcome you.
The Hawthryn believed this was mercy.
The Furlings believed it was destiny.
Neither yet understood the cost.
V. Descent into Myrr’Kael
The cheering stopped when the air changed.
Mist swallowed the light. The canopy thinned. The smell came first—rot, iron, wet stone. Then the sound: something breathing beneath the water, something moving where nothing should.
The Hawthryn descended.
And released them.
Myrr’Kael was not holy forest. It was rot, mist, and teeth. The ground shifted. The water watched. Mirebound Colossi loomed like moving hills, dragging chains of vine and bone through the swamp.
The Furlings learned quickly.
They learned how to move silently.
How to steal Gloomdew from nests and seep-hollows.
How to vanish before the Mirebound noticed the loss.
They were compensated—food, shelter, blessings spoken in Vaelthyr’s name.
Yet none dared leave.
To fail felt like heresy.
To turn back felt like defying a goddess.
The Imperium set a measure:
One hundred sacks of Gloomdew would grant ascension—
the right to live among the Hawthryn in Vaelthyr’s boughs.
No Furling had ever reached the mark.
VI. The Hollowing of Duty
Over time, something changed.
Hawthryn wings still flew patrols. Still guarded Vaelthyr. Still spoke of duty.
But fewer descended into the swamps.
The scars faded.
The rituals thinned.
The fight became something others did for them.
And among the Imperium, an unease grew.
“We live upon her,” murmured some elders.
“But we no longer bleed for her.”
Whispers spread of stagnation—that distance had softened purpose, that the sky had become a shield against responsibility.
Not all accepted the Doctrine.
Small wing-bands began to descend again, unbidden. They fought alongside Furlings. They saw the cost firsthand.
And the doubt took root.
VII. The Hundredth Sack
His name was Tovren Reedhand.
Where others hauled openly, Tovren learned patience. He discovered a limestone cave veiled by roots and fog. There, over many seasons, he hid the Gloomdew he gathered—sack by sack, breath by breath.
When he presented his haul—one hundred full sacks—the Skycrown Conclave fell silent.
They had not expected this.
Bound by their own law, they granted him ascent.
Tovren entered Vaelthyr.
And he saw the distance.
That night, he fled.
VIII. The Reckoning of Wings
After one full score of searching, a Hawthryn war-band found him—not fleeing, but surviving. Tovren had carved a life into stone and silence.
He told them everything.
And they listened.
They did not kill him.
They returned to Vaelthyr and demanded debate—not of survival, but of worth.
“If Vaelthyr allows us to live upon her,” they argued,
“then she allows us to fight for her.
Delegated faith is hollow faith.”
The Conclave fractured.
At last, a decree was passed:
The Otterfolk Doctrine would end.
Furlings would no longer be brought in ignorance.
Those who remained would stay by choice, informed and free.
The work of Gloomdew would return to Hawthryn wings—
with allies beside them, not beneath them.
Vaelthyr still lives.
But now, the blood that feeds her roots is shared.
And the Hawthryn remember what it means to serve a goddess—
not from above,
but from within the rot she endures.