Description: The Wanderer steps into the Dark Hedges, sunlight dappling the dirt path. Their stomach growls.
Púca (dialogue): "You’re lookin’ peaky, Wanderer. Hungry, are ya? I can smell it off ya from here. Lucky for you, I’ve a little gift—" The Púca tosses a small bundle at your feet: a simple bow, hand‑carved, and a few sharp arrows. "Don’t ask where I got it. Just use it. There’s a rabbit nearby, fat little thing. Quick meal if you’ve the stomach for it."
Choice Options:
[[Track the rabbit]]
[[Ignore hunger and keep walking]]
You starved to deathDescription: The Wanderer crouches in the brush. A small rabbit nibbles clover nearby.
Púca: "Go on then. Quick strike. Don’t overthink it."
Player Action:
[[Kill the rabbit]]
''Description'': The rabbit falls still. The forest goes unnaturally quiet. A cold wind rises despite the sunny sky.
''Morrígan:'' "A geas broken is more than a misstep — it is a thread torn from the tapestry of fate. And torn threads unravel more than you see. This land remembers every oath, every vow, every binding… and every violation." Her eyes narrow, gleaming like stormlight caught on a blade.
"Another has walked this road before you — proud, fierce, blind to the signs until they swallowed him whole. You follow echoes you do not yet understand. If you would bear the weight of this folly, then let the storm taste your spirit and decide whether you are worth mending… or breaking."
''Action'': The Morrígan spreads her cloak and, with a flare of winged shadow and a shriek of wind, vanishes as suddenly as she had appeared. The forest holds its breath.
''Púca'': The Púca stumbles back, bleating in genuine surprise. "By the gods — I didn’t know she’d come for that. An' here I thought we were only after supper." He glances about, then lowers his voice. "There’s a place you should go. Dún Dealgan Motte. Cú Chulainn keeps watch of the halls there. He’s tangled with the Morrígan afore. If anyone can tell you what a broken geas chews up, it’s him."
[[Go to the castle]]
''Description'': Fields roll away beneath a sky still streaked with storm. The Púca leads, trying to act like a swaggering guide though his steps are quick and nervous. The fortress of Dún Dealgan looks indifferent to human worry.
''Púca'': "Keep your head down. Don’t go lookin’ for trouble; it’ll find you, anyway. We ask for an audience — Cú Chulainn might take pity, or he might spit you out like a bone. Either way, better to know than to wander blind with a curse clackin’ behind you."
Choice Options
[[Enter the castle with caution]]
''Description'': Torches line the corridors. Warriors' banners hang, faded. The Wanderer steps into the great hall; conversations hush like wind through grass. For a moment — nothing moves. Then the air thickens, and the ghost of a champion coalesces.
''Action'': Cú Chulainn’s spectral shape forms from a drift of smoke and memory; he speaks only after the Wanderer has fully entered the hall.
''Cú Chulainn'' : "Easy, now. You’re shakin’ like a leaf, but you’re still standin’. That’s more than most can say after earnin’ the Morrígan’s ire. I’ve been where you stand, Wanderer. Broken geasa… consequences you don’t see until they’re gnawin’ at your bones. Mine? Dog meat and a hag’s lies. Led me straight to my doom." He lets out a humorless chuckle. "Some choices look free. None of ‘em are. Trust me on that."
[[Ask how he survived]]''Cú Chulainn'' : "Survive? I didn’t. That’s why you can see right through me. But you — you’ve still got a pulse, and the Morrígan’s attention. That’s a blade with two edges. She tests. She judges. And she never forgets." He pauses, then adds, quieter: "I can tell you what befell me. But I can’t walk your steps for you."
''Púca '' "Grand hero, but absolutely no help at all, is he?" The Púca flicks an ear. "Listen, Wanderer. You’ve kicked a hornet’s nest, but storms and omens aren’t the end of the road. There’s one who might set you straight — Finn mac Cumhaill. Knows more about geasa and fate-webs than any ghost or goddess. If anyone can keep you from bein’ torn apart by prophecy, it’s him."
''Cú Chulainn '': The ghost snorts. "Finn? Hah. If you’re seekin’ answers, he’s as good a place to start as any. Man’s got a head stuffed with lore — and more luck than sense."
''Púca : ''"Well? You comin’, Wanderer? We’d best find him before the Morrígan decides the storm wasn’t enough of a warning."
[[Accept Púca's plan]]''Location: ''The Giant’s Causeway — a vast stretch of hexagonal basalt columns descending into the sea, windswept and echoing with old legends.
''Description: ''The Wanderer travels north with the Púca padding along at their heels. The sky clears, opening into pale blue as the coastline comes into view. Waves crash against the stones in rhythmic thunder.
''Púca:'' "Beautiful, isn’t it? All those stones—each one smackin’ the sea like it owes ’em money. Finn’ll be lurkin’ somewhere near the waterline. He’s always brooding or thinkin’ or doin’ that hero stuff he does."
[[Look for Finn near the stones]]
''Description:'' Near the roaring shore stands Finn mac Cumhaill, tall and steady as the stones around him. His cloak flutters like a banner in the salt wind.
''Finn'' : "Ah. You’ve the look of someone tangled in somethin’ fierce. The air around ya’s wrong — storm‑licked and threaded with old magic. Someone’s cursed ya, haven’t they? And not just anyone… the Morrígan herself."
He draws a long breath, thoughtful.
[["I’ve not seen your exact trouble before… but I know what happens to those who hunt on sacred ground. Long ago, a giant tried his hand at claimin’ this land. Built himself a grand bridge across the sea. Thought he’d march right over and tear my head off. So I tricked him — made him think I was a babe in arms, small and harmless. Sent him runnin’ home cryin’. Even giants fall to cleverness."]]
[[Ask how that helps]]''Description'': Finn kneels to pick up a smooth stone, rolling it between his fingers.
''Finn'' : "If a giant can be fooled, maybe a goddess can too — though she’s far sharper. But she has her soft spots. The Morrígan holds swans dear. They’re threads in the weave of her many forms. If you were to use that — gently, mind — you might stir her heart instead of her fury. Twist the curse instead of breakin’ it outright."
-The Púca’s ears flatten.
''Púca'': "Ah now, hold on. That’s risky. Very risky. Goddess business is messy, and swans? They’re sacred. You start meddlin’ there and you’ll tear more than you mend. Maybe we should— y’know — not do that. At all. Ever."
''Finn: ''He turns, eyebrow raised. "Why so eager to steer them away, Púca? You want the Wanderer cursed forever?"
-The Púca freezes, then forces a smile.
''Púca:'' "Me? No! Saints preserve me, I’m only lookin’ out for our poor mortal friend here. Wouldn’t want ’em pluckin’ feathers off somethin’ divine and gettin’ smote."
''Finn:'' "Mind yourself. That creature’s help comes at a price — always. Whatever he wants from you… it’s tied to this curse. Don’t let him lead you blind."
[[Accept Fionns suggestion and go to the lake]]
[[Agree with Púca and enter the Morrigans shrine]]''Location'': A quiet lake fed by silver streams, where a small flock of white swans drift in slow circles.
- The Wanderer approaches the swans, their feathers glowing faintly with divine resonance.
The Wanderer wordlessly asks for their aid.
The swans observe, serene and ancient.
The Wanderer sings — the melody meant for the Morrígan.
The swans listen… and choose to follow.
[[ The swans accompany the Wanderer to the shrine.]]''Location'': The Morrígan’s shrine — a stone altar draped in raven feathers, surrounded by whispering winds.
-The Wanderer arrives without the swans’ blessing.
''Púca '': With a sly grin: "Well now… brave or foolish, comin’ alone. Let me… help ya explain yerself to the Lady."
He stands close to the goddess as she manifests, whispering poison-sweet half-truths.
[[ The Morrígan does not kill the Wanderer instead, she transforms them into a fae-bound servant for a span long enough to feel like forever. The Púca slips into the Wanderer’s now-empty mortal body. Freed of the Dark Hedges, he laughs a triumphant, echoing sound and vanishes into the world.]]
- The Wanderer arrives with the swans surrounding them, feathers glowing softly. Their presence calms the air, muting the Morrígan’s stormy aura.
''Morrígan: "''You bring what is dear to me. You show understanding, not defiance. Very well — your curse may be unmade. But every rift mended must be paid for."
[[Offer blood willingly]]Bad Ending > The Púca’s Freedom.-The Wanderer takes the dagger and makes a small cut in the palm, letting a few drops of blood fall upon the sacred earth of the Dark Hedges. The swans watch solemnly, their gaze steady and approving.
Púca’s Betrayal: Suddenly, the Púca leaps and snatches the dagger, laughing maniacally.
''Wanderer (action)'': Drawing the bow and nocking an arrow, the Wanderer takes careful aim and fires.
-The arrow strikes the Púca’s arm. The dagger falls to the ground. The Wanderer steps forward, Púca hissing and snarling.
''Púca'': "Hah… clever mortal. But don’t think this is the end. I’ll slither back into your path someday… when you least expect it." He dissolves into a swirl of shadow and mist, vanishing.
''Morrígan:'' The goddess observes, her eyes softer. "The offering has been made, and understanding shown. The curse is lifted. Go with your life, and walk free of the bonds you carried."
[[The Wanderer stands among the swans at the shrine. Blood has been offered, courage tested, and wit employed. The Morrígan lifts the curse, the Púca’s schemes are thwarted, and the Wanderer is free to roam the world, carrying lessons of respect, cunning, and bravery.]]Good Ending — The Curse liftes