Hesan Folklore and Ghost Stories

(This document is extremely relevant to characters like @Heide Froste, @Griselde Weber, @Ewald Graumesser, @Nachtkrachzer and @Elke. It is also relavant to @Sloane Albani)

(Though not an actual connection, the story of The Red Thread described below might have some artistic/poetic relevance to @Sir Alaric Rochefort and his position in Hesan society after saving @Princess Elara of Alendria. In Alaric's Hesan culture, helping a victim of war is seen as dangerous and outcasts you from the group).

In Hesa, folklore is a kind of memory. These stories are steeped in dread and fatalism. They echo the belief that the world itself is wounded, and that death is a presence. The beating organ of Hesa, common folk, endure in the black lace of mourning veils, in the hush of winter wells, in the lullabies that name the dead. While the Emperor is worshipped as divine, the countryside still drips with intimate spirits, wounded, and often hungry.

The Lantern Wife

In the village of @Mittelwald, they say a woman once lit a lantern to guide her husband home from war. He never returned, but she kept the flame alive for seven years. When she died, the lantern wouldn’t go out.

They buried her with it, but the grave glowed through the soil. They tried to douse it with river water, but the flame hissed and burned brighter. Eventually, they built a shrine around her grave and left it alone. The shrine still stands, though no one tends it.

Now, if you see a lone light flickering in the woods, it’s her—still waiting.

Children are warned: never follow a light that doesn’t flicker. The Lantern Wife doesn’t know you’re not her husband, and she’ll lead you into the river.

Some say she walks the banks at dusk, murmuring his name. Others claim she appears in fog, her lantern swinging like a pendulum.

In @Mittelwald, they say: if you leave a candle by your window and whisper a name, she’ll carry it to the dead. But if the candle goes out before dawn, the name was refused.

The Goat That Spoke

They say it wandered into the village of @Felsendorf endorf one autumn, a pale goat with eyes like river stones. It followed no one, but stood outside the farmer’s house and bleated until he let it in.

That night, it spoke. Its voice was low and dry, like wind through a cellar. It told the farmer where to dig for silver buried beneath the old well. It named the neighbor who had salted his fields. It whispered what his wife dreamed when she slept alone. The farmer grew rich. He confronted the neighbor, who fled. He watched his wife with suspicion, though she had done no wrong.

Each night, the goat spoke more. It told him what the priest confessed in private. It named the child who would die before spring. It described the shape of the sickness in his bones. The farmer stopped sleeping. He stopped speaking. He sat beside the goat and listened.

On the seventh night, the goat said nothing. The farmer begged. He wept. He screamed.

The goat turned its head and said, "You know enough."

The next morning, the farmer was found hanging from the rafters. The goat was gone.

In @Felsendorf, they say: truth is heavier than gold, and the goat still walks the hills, looking for someone who hasn’t learned that.

The Red Thread

Every seventh winter, when the snow is deepest and the moon hangs low, a red thread appears outside the village of @Rotingen . It stretches from the old well to the edge of the woods, thin as a hair and bright as blood. It’s too fine to be woven, too straight to be natural. It never tangles, never breaks. If you follow it, you’ll find a girl in white, kneeling beside a tree that bleeds. She weeps without sound.

Some say she is the daughter of a god who died in the creation war. Others say she is the first witch. But all agree: if you speak to her, you’ll dream of the end of days. And when you wake, something will be missing.

There are stories of those who followed the thread and returned. One man came back mute. One woman forgot her children. A boy returned with no reflection.

In @Rotingen , they say: the thread is a test. If you follow it, you must not speak. You must not touch the girl. You must not weep. If you do, the thread will wrap around your heart and pull.

There is a ritual: some villagers leave offerings at the well—salt, thread, a lock of hair. They believe it keeps the girl from walking into town. But once, the thread appeared inside the village. It ran through the baker’s door and out the window. The baker was never seen again.

Now, when the seventh winter comes, the villagers stay indoors. They bar their doors. They do not speak of the thread.

“Rôter Faden, bleichiu maget”

(Red Thread, Pale Child)
A Hesan folk lament

Hesan:

Rôter Faden, bleichiu maget,
wînet in dem kalten snê.
Der mane lîget tiuf und träge,
der walt ist nah, daz ende nê.

Si lât den Faden stille lîgen,
bî brunne, wurzel, stein und tor.
Wer dar gât, verlîret sîn lîhte—
schimpe, stimme, nam verlôr.

Si wînet um kriec, um alte zît,
um gotes tot, um minneklît.
Wer ir klage nennet gar,
wird selbe snê, wird selbe nar.

Drum binde hâr und salze tor,
sprich niht, ob si ist hie vor.
Diu rôten Faden zîhen sacht,
und füeren dich zur lesten naht.

Common Translation:

Red thread, pale maid,
She weepeth in the bitter snow.
The moon doth hang low and heavy,
The wood draweth nigh, the end doth grow.

She layeth thread so still, so fine,
By well, by root, by stone and gate.
Who treadeth there shall lose their light—
Their shade, their voice, their name and fate.

She weepeth for war, for time long fled,
For gods now dead, for love once wed.
And whoso speaketh of her woe,
Shall turn to snow, to scar below.

So bind thy hair and salt thy door,
And speak no word if she be near.
For red threads pull with gentle hand,
And lead thee to thy final night.

The Widow’s Web

Northern women weave black lace and hang it from their windows. It’s said to catch ghosts.

If the lace flutters without wind, a spirit has passed through.
If it tears, the spirit was angry.
If it knots itself, the spirit wants to stay.

Widows never mend the lace. They let it rot, so the dead can forget them.

The Bonebird

They say it nests in graveyards, built from ash and splinters, its feathers pale as frost. It sings only to the dying. If you hear it, you have three days to settle your affairs. It doesn’t fly. It drifts, carried by wind. It lands on windowsills, rooftops, and the shoulders of those who have already begun to die. Some say it was once a god’s messenger, punished for pitying mortals. Others claim it is the soul of the first mourner, who wept so long she forgot her own name and became a bird.

In Hesa, they say: if the Bonebird sings sweetly, your death will be gentle. If it rasps, you will suffer. Older people leave bread on windowsills to feed the Bonebird, so it sings sweetly when it comes. Some carve tiny flutes from bone and hang them from trees, hoping to lure it away. But the Bonebird cannot be tricked. It knows who is marked.

There is a tale: of a girl who heard the song and ran. She crossed rivers, climbed mountains, and hid in caves. But on the third day, she found the bird waiting on her pillow. It sang once, and she vanished.

Bonebird Song (in Hesan)

Beinvalch nîget, daz mark verslâfet,
mit klâwen spitz, daz lîp er grâfet.
Geflatter klirret, ouge bleich,
sîn lîed ist tot, sîn stimme weich.

Beinvalch, Beinvalch, kratzet, klagt,
uf dem dache sîn schatte nagt.
Er klacket sîn snabel, er rîfet sîn hals,
er singet in tône, daz flöte vals.

Beinvalch, Beinvalch, beißet lîcht,
knabet an trâm und zehret nîht.
Drit tage blîbet, dâ sît der klanc—
er schabet sîn wort an sînem pranc.

Beinvalch, Beinvalch, treibet sacht,
mit vederen von totenslacht.
Er klopfet an glas, er zîhet den sill,
er kennt den namen, den nieman will.

Beinvalch, Beinvalch, verstummet gloc,
dîn atem ist kalt, dîn stimme ein joch.
Singet er sacht, so stirbest du sîn—
singet er rauch, so kumet der pîn.

Beinvalch, Beinvalch, nîmet den solt,
zerknirschet den namen, verschlinget den holt.
Wir lâzen im krümel und klage bereit—
doch er vergizzet niht, was man gemeit.

Bonebird Song (Common translation)

Bonebird gnaws where marrow sleepeth,
With claw so keen, the flesh it reapeth.
Its wings do clatter, eyes like chalk,
It singeth death, not menfolk talk.

Bonebird, Bonebird, scratch and cry,
Upon the roof its shade doth lie.
It clacketh beak, it raspeth throat,
It chanteth tunes no pipe may note.

Bonebird, Bonebird, bite the light,
Nibble dreams and gnaw the night.
Three days hence, the song shall toll—
It scrapeth sin from soul to soul.

Bonebird, Bonebird, drift and bite,
Feathers sewn from funeral rite.
It tappeth glass, it seeketh sill,
It knoweth names thou dar’st not spill.

Bonebird, Bonebird, hush the bell,
Thy breath is frost, thy voice a knell.
If thou croon, thy death be mild—
If thou rasp, thy pain be wild.

Bonebird, Bonebird, taketh toll,
Grindeth name and gulpeth soul.
We leave it crumbs and carved regret—
But it forgeteth not, what we forget.