Long long ago, when the empire was young, the woods were full of a transitory people. They cavorted in the deep dark of the west, singing heathen songs and dancing round their pyres.
Long of hair and with pointed ears, they dressed in tunics of spun plant fibres, dyed a spectacular range of vibrant colors. Their belts were braided and often inlain with jewels, and their smiles were just as bright.
It would not have done to be fooled by their fair appearance though, for not all that glitters is gold. The witches were foul, practitioners of the dark arts. Worshippers and consorts of demons. They were liars, tricksters, and cannibals.
The witches lived across the continent, but they were dangerous. They lured children into their woods in the west, where upon they would either devour them or worse, magically charm them into bondage.
The noble King Barwick, who would one day become Emperor, was the first to do something about these wicked creatures. He marshaled an army and struck out into the west. They cut swathes through the Witches, who were unprepared for such direct resistance to their wickedness.
They were driven from the lands, they were caught and dealt with, punished severely for their extensive sins. Stakes and trials, they were put to fire and the sword.
The forests are now silent. No one dances through the overgrown clearings, no pyres burn bright in the night, no songs are sung now. Their villages are long since burnt to ashes and scattered by the wind. The craggy ends of the continent are bare and silent, save for the brave humans settling this new frontier.
But some lament the loss. They lament what was lost, for that lost time when the woods were full.
When there were Witches in the West.
