s preserved in the whisper-scrolls of the Inner Coil
Long ago, before the Abbey at the Friars’ Gate kept its silent watch, before the roads converged to form the bones of a town, there was a river— deep, dark, and winding. It curled through the land like a serpent, slow and silent, threading secrets through root and stone. They called it the Gales River.
Along its banks lived those who listened: herbalists, diviners, lorekeepers, and wanderers who heard what others dismissed. They noticed how the water sang different songs by season, how the stars mirrored the river’s curve, how truths slid between shadows if you watched from the corner of your eye.
These watchers were not a people of war or conquest. They left no monuments and claimed no land. Instead, they passed knowledge in riddles and symbols, hid teachings in weavings and wines, and drew maps only those with the right eyes could read.
Some said they were witches.
Others said they were the river’s own children.
But among themselves, they were simply the Society— bound not by blood, but by secrets and the sacred art of asking better questions.
It was during the Time of Burning— when the nearby towns lit pyres for those deemed too strange, too silent, too wise— that the Society took the serpent as their symbol. Not for its fangs, but for its patience. Not for its venom, but for its transformation.
They coiled deeper into obscurity, vanishing into caves and cellars, forests and fog. They survived by becoming rumor.
Centuries passed, and the fire gave way to festival. The Friars’ Gate opened not to armies but to artistry. Yet the Society remained secretive, quiet and coiled.
It was only during the first festival gathering, when the Cockspur Clan danced flames across the field and laughter shook the stars, that the Serpentine Society emerged again— hooded, robed, faces painted with winding lines.
They brought teas that soothed the soul, riddles for the children, and strange illuminated performances that no one could quite explain afterward. They never stayed long in one place, never shouted, but everyone knew they had been there.
Now, at each Festival, they set up their winding walk—a labyrinth of silk curtains and dim lanterns. Within it, seekers may find a fortune-teller, a potion-maker, or a masked storyteller who knows a little too much about your dreams.
Their clever ways have led the Council of Elders to entrust the Society with the management of merchants for Festival Days. They map and merge and meander, ensuring a fabulous market for guests.
Their sigil, a silver serpent curled into an infinity knot, is stamped in wax on their missives and glints on the rings of their members.
Their motto: “In Every Curve, a Secret. In Every Shadow, a Path.”
If you’re clever, curious, or just a little lost, the Serpentine Society may find you. But beware: they never offer answers freely— only choices.
And once you’ve walked the winding path, you won’t ever quite walk straight again.