There are roads older than kingdoms, paths that predate language, worn into the earth by feet no history remembers. These are the Hollow Roads, winding veins of the world that lead travelers not always where they wish to go, but where they are needed.
And along these roads walk the Beakwalkers.
They arrive when the fog thickens and the path grows uncertain, tall, slender figures wrapped in tattered cloaks, their boots tapping softly on the earth. Their faces are hidden behind elongated, bird-like masks, and brittle feathers sprout from their crests like dried grass. The clinking of their blades and staffs rings through the mist, a sound both unsettling and strangely reassuring.
The Beakwalkers do not speak often. When they do, their voices rasp like wind through reeds, cryptic, brief, but always with purpose. They offer guidance, but not in the way a friend might. They do not lead you to comfort, but to where you are meant to be, even if it is not where you hoped to go.
Some travelers have cursed them, blaming them for leading them astray. But those same travelers often find, much later, that the detour saved their lives, or brought them to a place they were destined to reach. The Beakwalkers see further than we do. They walk with the road itself, knowing its bends beyond mortal eyes.
They are not without their rules.
Disrespect the road, cut across sacred paths, trample the roots, or speak ill of the journey, and they will leave you. They will let you wander into the fog, where the Hollow Roads grow wild, and the path beneath your feet dissolves into nothing.
But those who walk with reverence, those who greet the Beakwalkers with a nod, who heed their quiet advice, find their steps lighter, their journey smoother. Some even claim the Beakwalkers watched over them as they slept, standing guard at the edge of the mist.
It is tradition among the old wayfarers to carry Butcher’s Broom when walking the Hollow Roads, not to ward off the Beakwalkers, but to honor them.
The plant, stubborn and unyielding, was seen as a symbol of resilience, a gift to the road itself. Travelers would leave sprigs of Butcher’s Broom at crossroads as an offering, or weave it into their packs to show respect. It is said that a traveler who lays the plant beside a Beakwalker’s path may earn their lasting favor, a silent pact with the road’s guardians.
If you find yourself lost in the fog, and you hear the gentle rhythm of boots tapping beside you, do not fear.
Do not ask where they lead.
Do not demand answers.
Trust the road.
Trust the Beakwalkers.
And walk on.
When you reach your destination, leave a sprig of Butcher’s Broom at the threshold.
The road will remember you.
And so will they.
