An intimate look at the local gods of Wolf’s Chapel: whispered prayers, hidden altars, and the faith that still answers. 

A Primer on Local Religion in the Vale

Worship in the Vale

Faith in Wolf's Chapel is not grand or ostentatious. It does not blaze in golden altars or echo from vaulted halls. It smolders quietly, steady as the hearth, rooted in the rhythm of life and death among the trees. Religion here is less proclamation than practice. It lingers in the way a meal is shared, in the way graves are marked, in the way hunters leave a token of respect before they loose an arrow.

The people of the Vale do not debate belief. The gods are real but diminished, their power flowing less freely than in the old tales. They have always been real. The only question is which god you will honor, and whether that god has the strength to answer in kind, or the attention to punish neglect. Some are sanctioned by Antioch's priesthood, others are older, whispered in the spaces between doctrine, their altars built from moss and stone. In Wolf's Chapel there are no atheists. There are only those who choose carefully, and those who learn too late that silence is not safety.

The Gods of the Chapel and the Wild

The gods most often honored in Wolf's Chapel are woven into daily life. They are not distant abstractions, but presences felt at the table, in the soil, in the silence of the trees.

Matra Hearthborn, the Sacred Flame
Patroness of warmth, food, and charity. To offer a meal is to honor her. Every home fire in the village is, in some sense, her altar. Sybille's tavern burns with her blessing in every pot of stew, and Father Martin invokes her name more than any other. In the Chapel, her flame burns smaller than in Antioch's grand temples, but no less steady. To neglect Matra is to turn away from neighbor and guest alike. On winter's coldest night, even the poorest household leaves their door unbarred with soup on the fire, honoring her ancient compact.

Serenna of the Grove, Guardian of Wild Places
The forest's protector, whose worship lies in quiet acts: antlers laid at stone cairns, prayers whispered before the hunt, offerings left at sacred trees. Serenna is not asked for favor lightly. She is feared and respected in equal measure, a goddess who rewards those who take only what they need but curses those who despoil her domain. Hunters know to leave the heart of their first kill at her shrines. Woodcutters mark certain trees that must never fall. She keeps the balance between the village and the wild.

Thul of the Wet Pages, the Grieving Book
Keeper of memory and the honored dead. His rites burn names on parchment, consigning the forgotten to permanence. His presence is strongest in funerals, in the ossuary walls of the Chapel, and in the careful journals of families who know that forgetting is a second death. Young Tobias, who serves as both gravedigger and record keeper, maintains a ledger of every soul in the village cemetery, updating it with tear mixed ink after each burial. To worship Thul is to acknowledge that death is forgotten only when the name is spoken for the last time.

The Lady of the Forest
A presence older than any doctrine, neither goddess nor spirit but something between. Her tokens are cedar branches, frost roses, and oaths sworn at hidden glades. Some say she heals, others that she curses. None deny she is real. She predates the Shattering, perhaps predates the gods themselves. Evelyn, the young priestess in training, has spoken strange words in her sleep that many quietly attribute to the Lady's influence.

The Lady accepts no priests, builds no temples, yet her presence permeates the Vale. Mothers hang cedar above cradles. Hunters carry frost rose petals sewn into their cloaks. At the Wolf's Chapel Grove, the circle of ancient trees deep in the forest, offerings appear though no one admits to leaving them. She is not worshipped so much as acknowledged, not prayed to so much as bargained with. To the villagers, she is neither myth nor saint, but something older, deeper, and still watching.

The Doctrine of the Chapel

Father Martin preaches the approved faith of New Antioch's Church Militant. His sermons are plain and sparse, his voice weary, but he still calls on the gods whose names the empire esteems.

Ilvar the Measured Hand, who teaches that justice must be patient and ordered. Martin invokes her when settling disputes, though he lacks the authority for formal trials.

Valtric Hollow King, whose empty throne reminds that power must be borne even in absence. The empire's authority reaches Wolf's Chapel through his doctrine, even when no imperial officials are present.

Arven of the Open Hand, who sanctifies fair trade and the sharing of burdens. Market days begin with his blessing, ensuring honest scales and fair dealing.

Martin does not forbid the older gods of the Vale. He simply does not name them. That silence is its own form of permission. The people understand: Antioch's flame burns in the Chapel, but beneath its light, older roots remain. The empire is far away, but the forest is always close.

Gods Best Left Unnamed

Not all gods are spoken of in daylight. Some bring only rot, hunger, or ruin, and their names are carried on whispers if at all.

Thalhaz of the Blooming Rot, whose touch brings blight and whose blessing is plague. Farmers leave one corner of their fields to rot each harvest, payment to keep him from the rest. His name is spoken only when the black spots appear on leaves.

Molgrin Whitejaw, the hunger that gnaws even beneath the grave. Old Henrik claims to have seen shambling things in the deep woods, bodies that should not walk. Parents use his name to frighten children from straying too far: "Molgrin's teeth are always sharp."

Vereth the Devouring Root, who twists love into obsession and sacrifice. Her roses sometimes bloom wild near the village, beautiful and wrong. Young lovers are warned against picking them. Her worship is not just forbidden but actively destroyed when found.

Their altars are hidden in ruined clearings and cellar shadows. Their prayers are spoken only in desperation, by those who have exhausted all other options. Yet their influence is undeniable. The rot that takes the harvest, the graves that will not stay quiet, the love that becomes madness. Even silence can be worship, and in Wolf's Chapel, silence leaves marks.

What the Villagers Know

Faith is not an abstraction in the Vale. It is fact. The gods are real, all of them, though weaker than they once were. Their presence is woven into soil and song, fire and famine.

Different homes serve different patrons, some aligning with Antioch's doctrine, others clinging to the forest's old pacts. The blacksmith keeps a small shrine to Durek near his forge. The midwife whispers prayers to both Matra and the Lady. The innkeeper pours a cup for Arven before opening his doors each morning. This does not fracture the village so much as define it.

Wolf's Chapel walks a narrow path, suspended between the empire's sanctioned creed and the wild's older truths. They understand what city folk might not: when divine power runs thin, you cannot afford to be choosy about which god might answer. You make your offerings, you keep your bargains, and you hope that when you need them, the gods still have enough strength to help.

For the outsider, the lesson is simple: worship here has weight. An offering may one day be returned. A slight may one day be punished. The gods of the Vale are not quiet because they are absent. They are quiet because they are listening, and because even gods must ration their strength in these diminished times.

Understanding the Lady of the Forest

Unlike the gods whose power flows through prayer and clergy, the Lady operates through older mechanisms: blood pacts, ancestral debts, and bargains sealed in moonlight. Where the gods grant blessings for devotion, she trades in absolutes: a life for a life, a year of service for a single answer, your firstborn's laughter for a harvest that will not fail.

What She Governs: The deep woods of the Vale, ancient boundaries, and the thin places where the material world grows strange. The Wolf's Chapel Grove, that circle of ancient trees, is said to be her heart in this region.

How She Works: The Lady makes bargains rather than answering prayers: a healing for a service, protection for a promise, knowledge for a price always higher than expected. These bargains often pass through bloodlines. A grandmother's deal might bind her granddaughter decades later.

Signs of Her Presence:

• Cedar branches that never rot when hung above doorways

• Frost roses blooming out of season

• Children born during strange weather who display unusual abilities

• Animals that watch too intently and flee when noticed

• Paths through the forest that exist only sometimes

Local Practices:

• Hanging cedar above cradles to protect infants

• Carrying frost rose petals sewn into clothing for protection

• Never cutting certain marked trees

• Leaving offerings at the Wolf's Chapel Grove (though none admit to it)

• Teaching children the "old rules": never follow lights in the forest, always carry bread and salt, count the stones when crossing water

Those Touched by the Lady: Children born under strange circumstances (during eclipses, in blizzards, when the aurora shows) are said to be "touched by the Lady." They often display unusual abilities but pay for them in odd ways: unable to cross running water without permission, compelled to count seeds before eating, or speaking prophecy in their sleep. Evelyn is believed to be one such child.

The Old Agreements: Certain families in Wolf's Chapel maintain ancient pacts with the Lady. These are never spoken of directly, but everyone knows which households leave their windows open during the full moon, or why the Muller family's eldest daughter always plants exactly nine roses each spring. Breaking these agreements brings misfortune not just to the individual but to their entire bloodline.

The Lady represents the ancient powers that once ruled the world before gods and mortals made their covenants. Her interventions operate by rules the villagers can sense but not fully understand. She is neither good nor evil, neither kind nor cruel. She simply is, and has always been, and will remain long after newer powers fade.