The Wardens of the Thorn

The Wardens of the Thorn are the sworn guardians of the Thornmere Wilds, a vast, tangled forest where the line between creature and kin blurs, and the law of balance reigns above all else. They are not an army, nor a tribe, but an ancient compact of hunters, trackers, and beast-tamers who see themselves as the living will of the forest — the hands that cull, the claws that spare, and the eyes that watch unseen. Their code is older than parchment and simpler than prayer: “Take only what endures. Kill only what consumes. Let the strong protect the rest.” The Wardens hold no scripture, no crown, and no temple; their faith lies in the natural order itself — in the cycle of predator and prey, of growth and rot. To them, civilization is a fever that must be kept in check, and the Abbey’s light, though well-meaning, burns too hot for the good of the soil.

Their leader, Hunter Chief Therrin Bloodbough, is both chieftain and mediator — chosen not by lineage or contest, but by the forest’s own omen: the beast that kneels before him and the wind that stills at his call. He rules from Stonehollow Den, a massive burrow-fortress carved into the roots of a colossal thornwood tree, where every oath is sworn in silence before a roaring hearth. Beneath him serve the Circles, small hunting bands marked by carved sigils and guided by a shared totem — wolf, boar, owl, or hart — each balancing different aspects of instinct and restraint. Disputes among Circles are settled through The Long Silence, a trial of stillness and patience rather than combat; the one who breaks the silence first forfeits the forest’s favor. This strange custom has kept the Wardens unified for centuries, even when blades have been drawn and tempers have run wild.

The Wardens tolerate no masters, but they honor the balance between all living things. They will defend a village from beasts if the beasts have overbred — and burn the same village to ash if it spreads too far into the green. To outsiders, they appear savage and arbitrary, but within their creed lies a profound understanding of harmony. They see themselves as nature’s stewards against the excess of all others — the Abbey’s zeal, the Circle’s pride, the Mirekeepers’ apathy. Those who break the Warden’s oath or take more than their share are branded Rootless and exiled, their names carved into bark and left to fade under moss. Among the folk of Mosswood, the Wardens inspire both gratitude and fear; their arrows keep the predators away, yet their laws are whispered of like weather — inevitable, unpredictable, and wholly indifferent to pleading.

To the Wardens of the Thorn, the Wild is neither cruel nor kind — it simply is. And they, in turn, are not heroes nor villains, but its chosen instruments — thorns that prick to protect the bloom.