There are places in the forest where the air feels stitched together, paths where the world seems held by threads you cannot see. If you walk these places with respect, you may glimpse the Stitchblades.
Tall and draped in patchwork garments that seem both armor and fabric, the Wardens walk with measured steps, blades glinting in the dappled light. Their heads are covered by a stitched hood that curves like a sack, with crude laces holding it together, as though they, too, have been mended by the forest.
The Wardens are guardians, not of treasure, but of balance. They tend the seams of the forest, ensuring that paths are walked with care and that what is taken is returned in kind. Hunters who offer thanks to the trees, gatherers who leave the roots behind, and wanderers who move with gentle feet, they may feel a Warden’s unseen gaze and know they are safe.
But those who cut without asking, who take more than their share, or leave wounds in the earth, they invite the Wardens’ quiet judgment.
The Stitchblade do not speak.
They do not threaten.
But those who offend the forest find their tools blunted, their paths winding back on themselves, or their packs slowly growing lighter, as though the forest reclaims what was stolen. It is said that a Stitchblade may appear at dusk, standing silently at the edge of your camp, blade resting lightly on the ground. That is your warning.
Leave. Return what you took.
Or be unstitched.
The Wardens respect those who understand that the forest, like cloth, can be torn, but it can also be mended. Marjoram is their favored herb, an offering carried by those who walk under their watch. Known to soothe wounds and ease aches, marjoram is not just a balm for the body but for the land itself.
Old gatherers rub marjoram on the roots of plants they trim, whispering thanks to the Stitchblades. Hunters press it to the mouth of slain deer, offering peace to the spirit and asking that their arrow wound be sewn into the weave of life once more.
If you fear you have offended the forest, scatter marjoram upon the ground and kneel.
Whisper:
"What was torn, let it bind.
What was taken, let it grow.
What was wounded, let it heal."
If the Stitchblade watches, they may lower their sword and turn away.
When you cut from the forest, cut gently.
When you step upon the earth, step lightly.
And if you see the hooded Warden at the edge of your path, with a blade resting in the grass: Know that the forest is watching. And it can mend without you.
