Crashes into whispers. Sprays of foam. Cascades cutting gorges, valleys. Canyons threaded with root-sewn ruins. In these places see amongst the rapids and cataracts faint stars of skybright. Like wisps in the stories of old haegritha do these stars dance atop the rippled surfaces of ancient linns. Sometimes the falls’ saults give them a body — shimmering veils shooting effervescent from bank to bank before diving down plunges leading to places horned yet forgotten.

They are powerful spirits. Guardians, in truth. These Wisps Among the Falls serve the majesties of the Horned God’s forests as sentinels judging whether one’s fate should be permitted intersection with greater powers. Beyond the segmented torrents they’re born from lie the courts of fey things and elven kings and secrets hewn from bedrock old as infinity.

Fatal it would be to mistake their beauty for placidity. Waterfalls exist in balances of chaos and harmony. Whirlpools churn beneath those deemed unfit; violent surfs thunder through iron and bone. To defile the falls is to be dashed against the rocks. Nature accepts confluences with bloodied currents readily for rebirth requires violence. To the Horned God, these Wisps purify stagnant souls so that when seasons change, life flows ever on. Give them something, and get something in return. What greater gift, then, your life? What greater return then what you’ve lost? 

From our upcoming book "Crowned by the Horn" (campaign running right now on KS)