Long ago, when the land was still wild with whispering reeds and shadowed thickets, a small band of wandering friars traveled east of the great Gales River, bearing only their satchels, their scriptures, and a silver-banded bow.
These were not ordinary holy men. Once archers in the Kings' Army, they now called themselves The Brothers of the Rushing Wind and they were devotees of peace, hospitality, and the sacred promise of shelter for all who wandered. For years they had moved from glade to glade, healing the sick, planting herbs where plague had passed, and telling stories where silence had taken root. But their steps grew slower with each season.
The Wychwood—an ancient forest said to whisper men's names and twist the paths of the unworthy—had grown bold in its reach. Villages near its edge vanished. Roads curved strangely. Even birds grew hushed. So the Brothers made a vow: they would go through the Wychwood. They would find its heart and tame it.
And if the land would allow it, they would build something sacred there—not a fortress, but a refuge. Not of stone and sword, but of wood and will.
For seven days and seven nights, they walked through the forest’s dim halls, where bark looked like faces and roots tangled like secrets.
Some say they were tested.
One friar was asked to carry a wounded fox for miles. Another to keep walking though the road behind him turned to mist. A third heard his own voice echo back from the trees, asking why he had come.
On the eighth morning, they reached a clearing: a wide, misty hollow where seven black ravens waited on the branches.
The air was still. The ground was soft and flat. And in the center of the clearing, half-buried beneath moss, lay the remains of an old bow, carved of dark yew, with a grip worn smooth by reverent hands.
They knelt there. Not in fear, but in thanks. This, they knew, was the place.
They built first a small house with a hearth, where weary travelers could rest. Then a hall, where stories could be sung. And finally, they raised a chapel—not grand, but strange and beautiful: its spire curved like a branch in wind, its beams drawn from wind-felled trees, its doors never locked.
They named it The Bow Church, in honor of the sacred weapon left behind by someone long gone—perhaps hunter, perhaps guardian, perhaps ghost.
The village that grew around it was called Ravenmoore, for the birds who watched their founding and flew above each new roof.
The Wychwood never swallowed the land again. In fact, it seemed almost to approve. The forest grew quiet. The paths stayed true. But the Bow Church stands no more, its spot beyond the market green and just west of the old stones stands empty.
Pilgrims still visit the spot. Children dare one another to run over the sacred ground
Some say the old bow still lies beneath the dirt, binding the village to peace.
The friars are long gone, but their legacy endures in every oath of welcome, in every story told by firelight, and in the Festival at the Friars' Gate—where all are welcomed, none are turned away, and the path always leads you home.