The Price of Survival: The History of the Blood Schism.

Harthwynn remains one of the oldest regions in Grenmark, carved from the cold, northeastern valleys of Ostar Magna following Skalbran’s Doom. Known for a culture of deep hospitality, its people are as hearty as the land they claim. Yet, beneath their welcoming hearths lies a history steeped in oral tradition and shadowed legends. Of these, the most vital, yet whispered, is the Blood Schism, a story passed quietly from generation to generation to remind the people of Harthwynn why the winter must always be watched.

Blood Schism

~The cautionary tale told to the children of Harthwynn and those who travel into their northern cities.

You notice how the women bar their doors and men double their watch at the first sign of winter. This I tell you is not out of superstition, but a necessity for our survival.

For when the snows deepen and the forests fall silent, those from the White Woods may be seen emerging. They come painted in ash and blood, and our people know them by a name, only spoken in low shame by the hearth.

The Reod Clan.

Few now remember… that those heathens were once our kin.

Fewer still speak of the winters that made them so.

Generations ago, before the bloody infighting that ended in Skalbran’s Doom, the clans of Norgard divided among themselves. Many believed the old ways had grown too harsh—that their people had become more savage than men.

The clans who rejected the brutality of Norgard life, gathered their families and fled east across the empty north of Grenmark. Months passed before they settled in the eastern valleys and founded the settlement of Kindleford, the earliest hearth of what would become Harthwynn.

The first summer was promising.

Homes were raised from timber and stone, the rivers ran clear, and the surrounding forests were rich with game. Fields were planted, and the people believed they had finally escaped the cruelty of their former homeland.

Then the winter came. 

And with it, its unforgiving harshness.

Snow fell without end. It piled against homes like white walls, burying roads and fields. Hunting became impossible. Livestock died in frozen pens, and many who ventured into the forests seeking food were swallowed by the storms and never seen again.

When spring finally came, the grip of winter loosened and the snow melted.

But our people’s trials had just begun.

The thaw flooded the valleys, drowning fields and washing away what little had been planted, leaving only black mud where crops should have stood. That first year’s harvest was meager, and the food stores of Kindleford suffered for it.

Our people prayed the coming winter might be less severe, that the bitterness of the last would not return.

But winter did not heed the prayers of men.

Starvation spread through the settlement like a sickness. Mothers lost children. Wives lost husbands. The ground had frozen hard beneath the snow, and no grave could be dug. The dead were stacked upon frozen earth in numbers the clans had never known.

Our people began to wither, with little hope left to them.

The sun once more warmed the land and the frost at last gave way, though this time the cruelty of winter did not fade.

All came to believe they were being punished, but for what they did not know.

This belief drove them to desperation.

And in that desperation, the clans labored tirelessly through the following harvest.

None were spared the burden; from dawn’s first light to the rising of the moon, the fields were never left unattended.

In return, the yield, at last, was generous.

What little faith they clung to continued on.

But amid their toil, the people began to notice something strange.

Neighbors disappeared when away from their homes for too long. Travelers were seen entering the village, but never leaving.

Few questioned it. Our people were too busy gathering grain to dwell upon suspicions.

As summer waned, fear stirred in the hearts of our people.

When the cold winds of winter returned, the clerics gathered the clans before the great hearth of the village.

There they revealed what they had done, in the name of survival.

“We did not reap this harvest by chance,” the priest said, “We purchased it through the gods. And the gods only require one thing.”

Kindleford fell silent.

“We offered sacrifice to the Blood-Mother and she returned the gift with a harvest that could save us.”

Many were horrified.

But not all.

They continued, their voices carrying across the crowd.

“If our people are to survive the winters of this land, the Blood-Mother demands more.”

They raised their hands toward the darkening sky.

“Blood must touch these grounds before the snows fall… if we wish to live through the coming season.”

None spoke out, none dared to question the clerics publicly. There was only a quiet unrest that spread through the clans.

Families returned to their homes, barring their doors before nightfall. Men refused sleep, fearing their wives or children may be taken in the dark.

The clerics gathered often after that night. They performed their rituals and called to their Blood-Mother.

At first, few followed them.

Then the sacrifices began, as little more than low breaths.

They chose their victims without pattern and in small numbers. No clan was singled out. No family was targeted twice.

So our people endured it.

For as long as one’s own family did not lose their kin, fear could be ignored.

To their quiet surprise, the winter was merciful.

And again the sweet scent of spring returned.

Some believed the burden of ritual might now come to its end.

But the clerics only called for more.

The harvest was rich, the fields heavy with grain. The clerics pointed to the bounty and the previous winter as proof that the gods had accepted their offering.

A darkness settled upon our people, wrought of fear and depravity.

For as the season turned, so too did the clerics. What had once been measured became deliberate, their choices guided not by chance but by design. And what had been hidden began to take form.

The sacrifices were brought into the open, and in the deepest hours of the night, their screams carried through the village without end.

Rivals were named. Prominent families were taken. The sacrifices grew more frequent, and the people of Kindleford now lived in constant terror.

Whispers of the same question filled the town.

“Why had we fled Norgard… if this was the life that awaited us?”

When the children began to be taken, the leaders could endure it no longer. For even the beasts of the White Woods do not devour their own.

They confronted the clerics.

“The sacrifices will end. We fled Norgard to escape savagery, yet we have brought it with us. We continue this no more.”

But the clerics refused.

They claimed the Blood-Mother demanded it, and that without blood the coming winters would destroy them all.

That refusal… broke the village. 

Thus began what our people call the Blood Schism.

The clerics and their followers declared themselves a new people. They called themselves the Reod Clan, believing the Blood-Mother had chosen them to preserve the ancient rites.

A battle both brutal and relentless unfolded.

Kin fought kin in the streets. The snow did not melt that spring; it turned a deep, dark red, soaked through with the life of brothers who had once shared the same cradle, in a village that had been built to save them.

In the end, the united clans prevailed over the clerics.

The Reod clan were driven from Kindleford and forced into the only refuge left that would accept such animals, the deep and unforgiving reaches of the White Woods.

There they remained.

And there they endure still, though how, none can say.

To this day the Reod Clan continue their blood sacrifices in the shadows of the White Woods. Before the first snows of winter appear, they at times march south from the forest’s edge, seeking captives to carry back into the darkness.

We do not pursue them.

For only one, Torn the Brave, has ever given chase and returned.

And this is the reason that when winter comes to Harthwynn, more men take up watch and women bar their doors.

Not from superstition.

 But for survival.

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