A rumor was going around that living unwelcome peoples were Good Luck Charms. People were hunting hellkin to knock out and cut off their horns, capturing kobolds to steal some scales, and other such actions. -- Lessons
Ward off unwelcome fate with that of unwelcome form, -- Old Human Superstition.
It's honestly amazing how simple statements can turn to misinterpretation. The origin came from a distant settlement that paid host to the Unwelcome. They found their troubles almost halved at first, and near to nonexistent in the long term.
This quickly mutated to morbid luck charms.
Elf hair, cut from the slaughtered Faekindred, woven and turned into protection charms. Hellkin horns, sawn off the unconscious or dead head. Sliced and carved into warding jewellery. Kobold scales, Gobelliin teeth, taken fresh from the corpses and carefully drilled and worn for good luck. They were everywhere in most Human settlements.
They celebrated them. They prized them. Anyone with a new child was desperate to acquire one for their baby.
Such as it was for centuries. Some kept Hellkin until their horns were "big enough" for a profit. Some hunted Kobolds and Gobelliin. Some started wars or other conflicts by hunting Elves.
A brave and foolish few sought out Trolls, Dragons, or Harukh.
Humanity was still struggling at the end of the earliest of the Xenophobia Wars. They themselves had only recently stopped being Unwelcome themselves. Humanity much preferred easier targets. Weaker targets.
It was an age where it was easier to be a hero. It was an age where the newly Unwelcome cowered together against the outrageous forces against them. The heroes of the age called them Evil Fortresses.
Those living in them knew them only as sanctuaries.
Desperation has many faces. So does heroism.
In a cavern scattered with things most others would reject, it looks like shanty houses where some attempt to heal others. Some attempt to feed others. Some attempt to comfort, even in the midst of their suffering.
"I'm sorry it stings," said the Elf treating the sawn-off horn stumps of a Hellkin. "The chamomile leaves are all but rotten. I don't have the magic to do better."
"M' granda said your lot an' my lot were enemies."
"Once upon a time, yes," said the Elf. Carefully daubing cold and stale tea on the bloody nubs. "Now we join against a new enemy." Lint. Balm. Bandages. Gently applied. "There's stew. Best not to ask what's in it."
"You look young," said the Hellkin. "How old are you really?"
"Old enough to remember when the stars fell," said the Elf. "If it's worth anything, I never helped with the making of pain."
"You're the ghost-trapper. The one they call Wraithbind. Aren't you?"
Wraithbind looked down at hir feet. "Yes. The wars... I couldn't stop them. I've only ever had myself to fix what's wrong."
The Hellkin could have blamed hir for everything, but they said, "We all do. Maybe we should work on it together."
"That would be nice," said Wraithbind.
[Photo by Lisa Hobbs on Unsplash]
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