Baron Vserad took a deep breath. Looking up, he saw the sun nearly set.
Along the way, not a single monster of Velen had crossed his path. No drowners, no ghouls, no water hags. All had avoided him.
And he knew why.
A searing pain suddenly flared in his hand—strange runes flashed briefly in his palm before vanishing.
"Damn it all!" Vserad yelped in pain.
At that moment, the large wooden doors of the chapel—which had been firmly shut—creaked open under some invisible force.
[Creaaaaak…]
That long, groaning sound echoed through the empty place.
In a place this remote, in a ruin this derelict, and with a 'chapel' appearing of all things—whatever happened next could easily belong in a ghost story.
Yet Baron Vserad's eyes shimmered with reverent obsession.
Shaking off the sting in his palm, he stepped briskly into the chapel. Countless half-melted candles flickered back to life with his every footstep. The dim flames cast eerie light across the nave, and in every sliver of that glow, it seemed as though something was watching.
But the baron paid no mind to the shadows. He moved with purpose through the hall, guided by memory, until he reached the far end.
There, a single painting came into view.
Staring at it, the obsession in Baron Vserad's eyes burned even brighter.
The painting depicted three women of graceful figure, their forms ethereal and sinuous. Their bodies were barely concealed by leaves and strands of hair, stark lines exposing vast swathes of pale, ghostly skin.
Had Lann been present, he would have immediately recognized these three sisters as the same ones he had seen in his dreams.
Though barely clothed, the women in the painting wore plenty of adornments—flower crowns, necklaces, rings. The one standing in the center held a wicker basket brimming with flowers and berries, symbols of abundance, which she shared with her two sisters.
Baron Vserad gazed at the juice trailing from their lips, utterly entranced by their figures, as if wishing the berries being chewed by those delicate cherry lips were his own flesh instead.
His breathing grew heavier, and he couldn't help but step forward, reaching out to caress the hair of one of the painted women—only to find that it was made of real human hair.
"You're back again?"
An airy voice suddenly echoed through the hall, as if carried through a vast cave, distant yet lingering.
"It's not time for the offering yet, little baron." The voice was melodious, but laced with teasing mischief. Even the painted woman's lips seemed to curl with amusement, as if gazing directly at Vserad.
"Or… are you hoping for another kind of reward?"
Baron Vserad swallowed hard and shook his head violently, suddenly flailing his arms in excitement.
"Ladies of the Wood! Foltest's army is about to strike!"
"We know. You've told us already," replied another voice—this one slick and syrupy, like honey squeezed from a flower long since withered. "Didn't we ask you to delay them for a few more days? Once we're ready, even if all the garrisons of Velen arrive, they'll end up as nothing more than fertilizer for the swamp…"
"No, no! This time is different," Vserad said urgently. "This time it's Lannister! Lann Lannister of Cintra—He's here!"
The candles throughout the hall froze in place, their flickering abruptly halted.
The light dimmed more than a shade.
"Lann Lannister?" came a third voice—this one raspier, more unsettling, like nails scraping across a navel.
She repeated the name.
Then, all three voices rose in unison like a haunting trio: "Lann Lannister?!"
Baron Vserad nodded furiously.
"Yes, Ladies of the Wood! Lann Lannister—the Lion of Cintra!"
The candles, which had just dimmed, suddenly flared to life again—burning more fiercely than before. The beeswax quickly melted away, yet the flames continued to hover and burn atop the empty candleholders.
"Well done. Very well done, little baron," cooed the slick, syrupy voice. "This message arrives just in time."
"What kind of reward do you want? A bountiful harvest in your garden? Fattened livestock for your pens? Or… hmm?" The voice rose slightly at the end.
Baron Vserad's breathing quickened.
"I wish… I humbly ask the Ladies to grant me another dream…" As expected, reverence lit up his face as he gently stroked the painted hair of the three sisters. "Just one more… one more dream inside the painting."
A ripple of delighted laughter echoed through the air. The sisters were clearly pleased by the request.
"Again? Oh, little baron—you really are greedy," purred the slick voice.
"In that case, this time… we've decided to make your dream last a bit longer," rasped the second voice.
"And this time… all three of us… together, hmm…" the third voice murmured lowly.
Vserad's face lit up with joy. "Thank you, Ladies of the Wood. Thank you for your grace—"
He didn't finish his words.
With a sudden grinding of mechanisms and magic, the ground beneath his feet gave way and collapsed.
Instead of drifting gently into a sweet dream like before, the baron let out a sharp cry as he tumbled down the chute, his body bouncing off jagged stone until he was knocked unconscious before ever reaching the bottom.
At the end of the passage, three figures—massive, emaciated, twisted—had long been waiting, saliva dripping uncontrollably from their lips.
...
In a shadowy underground cavern, a blurred field of vision swayed and shifted constantly.
Within the darkness, the only source of faint light came from a large cauldron simmering over a blazing fire. The wood crackled fiercely, transmitting heat into the pot and causing the soup and chunks of meat within to bubble and boil.
With each burst of foam, a strange stench wafted out, lingering heavily in the air, trapped within the cavern for what felt like an eternity.
The three Crones of the Woods stood around the cauldron, breathing deeply, their greedy eyes fixed on the writhing ingredients. They gulped down their saliva.
To the people of Velen, the Ladies of the Wood were regarded as a trinity of goddesses, akin to the goddess Melitele—divine beings who could bless them with harvests and fertility, and who helped them through hardship.
Of course, the Ladies' blessings always came with a price. Or rather, a 'sacrifice'.
Still, wasn't it far more reassuring to offer tribute to a god who demanded sacrifice than to serve a capricious human lord?
What the people of Velen didn't know, however, was that these three crones were the Ladies' true forms.
The title 'Ladies of the Wood' was simply a reverent name they had chosen for themselves. Their true names were: Weavess, Brewess, and Whispess.
They had existed long before humans ever set foot on the Continent. And when they discovered these new creatures, they were delighted—delighted that humans could be of use to them. So they swiftly spread the roots of their 'faith'.
Naturally, beings that predated humanity did not conform to human standards of beauty. The portraits hanging in their so-called 'chapel' were nothing more than disguises, a facade to deceive the people of Velen into reverence. Their true forms were as they appeared now—
Grotesque. Twisted.
…
Whispess was the eldest of the three. Her neck was short and thick, her head round like a melon, yet her body was thin as a stick, with long, ape-like arms that looked grotesquely disproportionate.
She always carried a satchel slung across her shoulder, filled with severed arms. It looked as if an extra limb had sprouted from her belly—no one knew whose hand it was, or even what kind of creature it had come from.
At this moment, she was rummaging through the cutting board, eventually picking up an ear. Without hesitation, she pressed it to her head and closed her eyes, listening intently. After a while, she tossed it into her mouth and began chewing noisily.
"Didn't hear a thing… That Little Baron is still wary of us. Not many offerings hanging in his Crow's Perch," Whispess muttered with a shake of her head. "If you ask me, every human in Velen should offer me an ear. Then I'd know everything—why wait for the Little Baron to tell us that someone with Elder Blood has come to Velen?"
…
Standing before the chopping block was Brewess, towering and bloated—like a wild boar reared up on two legs. Her exposed skin was an unsettling shade of tender pink, covered in wrinkles, folds, and oozing sores, like festering sludge.
True to her name, Brewess had a particular talent for preparing ingredients, even imbuing them with magic. At this moment, she was hacking away with a massive cleaver, striking with heavy, rhythmic thuds.
"Don't eat things raw, sister," she scolded, clearly displeased. "It's not healthy!"
With a grunt, she tossed Vserad's severed head aside and hurled the freshly butchered meat into the cauldron, where it sizzled and bubbled—not in water, but in boiling, crimson blood.
Now that's what you call broth-to-meat transmutation.
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