By: Cynthia, on 3 May 2026

Beneath the hot sun, the wind howled and swirled across a vast and unending prairie; each gust seized hold of flaxen stalks and pulled, threatening to yank them out by their roots. But no matter how severe the gale, the wheat and rye survived, wafting back to vaguely upright positions.

Ffion Byrewythe could only hope she would be so lucky.

To her chagrin, the black robes the young woman wore had faded quickly in the few years since her last growth spurt, hardly any darker than her skin now. Made of durable canvas cloth, they still served her well, shielding Ffion against most of the stinging debris that came with the buffeting plainswind: dirt, detritus, and more than a few unfortunate vermin.

But sails were also made of canvas.

For the last hour Ffion’s blood had churned with magic – small little gestures, each individually too miniscule to be called a spell – bending that violent wind around her in subtle ways. Not enough to stop it, but enough to keep on her feet. She’d wear herself out if she tried anything more, as far as she had to go.

It was rough today; the prairie schooners were few and far between, and the wronghorn herds out in the distance were restless. But Ffion had insisted on going out. As bad as the wind was, it would only worsen in the coming days, and she was going to have to reach Meteor City eventually.

When yet another gale reached its end – tiring of its cruel game, though not half so tired as the young witch was – Ffion realized she could hear a loud clattering in the distance behind her. She turned her head and looked back down the plain to see a line of white sails rising up over the amber waves, attached to a series of chained wooden wagons – each kissed below with the pale blue glow of magic.

A schooner caravan, one of the peculiarities of the Lanvan prairie that Ffion was quickly getting used to; they didn’t work anywhere else in Marches. Only merchants were foolish enough to brave the winds on days like this.

The young witch surprised herself with the annoyed grunt she made before scooting off hard to the left. Those things took forever and a day to stop or start. People knew to respect witches, as did some very sensible objects like doors. A multi-ton caravan was a bit too thick for that.

As she stepped to the side, an anxious pile of feathers screeched at Ffion indignantly before careening away through the air. A frown crossed her face; she wasn’t sure what kind of bird that was. Certainly nothing like they’d had up in the jungle to the north. A thing that no one had truly managed to mention to her was how ugly much of the life in the Lanvan prairie was.

It would take a great deal of time before she knew enough about this part of the Marches to be much use to its people when it came to working the land. But fortunately or unfortunately, a witch had many, many duties. Tending souls, educating children, and mending disease; those would look the same in the covens up north as they would in the enclave in Meteor City. Once she got there, Ffion would have plenty to do.

She just had to get there.

The clunk and creak of wood neared, and Ffion turned her head around just to make sure that she was well and truly to the caravan’s side. To her surprise – although the tailwind had hardly abated – the thing was coming to a slow stop, sails turned into the wind rather than against it.

Ffion reached into her robes to grab hold of a wooden handle – her sickle, strapped to her waist.

Lanva had bandits just like Glorin did. She couldn’t hardly imagine them using a whole caravan of schooners to attack her; witches barely carried money, and no one was going to mistake Ffion Byrewythe for a witch they had a grudge against like the Buckaroo Banshee. Even so, it didn’t hurt to make sure she knew where her weapon was and to keep walking.

The wagons outran Ffion by a good bit, even slowing down as they were – the tail end ran at least an octad ahead of her before she caught up to it again. When it finally came to a stop altogether, the witch had passed the thing’s halfway point. Several yards ahead of her, wooden shutters slammed open and out popped a portly woman’s well-coiffed head.

“Halloa, Sister Witch!” she called out. Her ears looked normal, which was not necessarily a good sign around here. “Might I ask where you’re going?”

Oh no, Ffion thought. She wants to offer a ride.

Both better and worse than bandits, in differing ways. For a moment, the young witch considered whether she found the generosity of a merchant or the bellowing wind more off-putting. Regardless, both were likely to sweep her off her feet at this point.

Ffion stepped forward, careful not to let the wind shove her steps too wide, and reached for the corners of her hood. If she were going to accept the service of the rich, it would have to be on her terms.

Lightning sparked in her eyes as she pointed southward.

“The capital of Lanva March. Meteor City.”

“Ah, what a coincidence!” The woman’s booming cheer was mostly unimpeded by the touch of fear in her voice. It was one thing to know the garb of a witch, and another to see the violet hair and eyes for oneself. “Well, I’m headed there as well, perhaps I could–”

“Yes,” Ffion said, cutting her off and moving more quickly. “Thank you.”

———

There is no march more defined by wind than Lanva – not even hurricane-plagued Maresbury. Sitting in a massive crater large enough to be a nation of its own, Lanva is by far the flattest and lowest region on the continent of Alovis, giving rise to hot windstorms which roar across the dusty scrubland. The derechos which form strike with such force and regularity that no settlement or farm exists except within the windshadows of mountains, hills, and mesas – either the great ringed mountain range known as the Meteora Mountains on the outside, or the much smaller inner ring known as the Amber Mesas. Even in the path of these windbreaks, most magical resources within Lanva go to the erection and maintenance of further wards against the wind.

If that were not inhospitable enough, the toxic alchemy which permeates the land makes Lanva even more difficult to inhabit. The great lake at the center of the crater is beautifully sterile, its clear and lifeless water unsuited for drinking or agriculture without processing. Centuries of tending by witches have left significant patches where rye or other grains can be farmed, but food from Lanva has a distinctive bitter tang that extends even to the meat of animals raised on the prairie.

Many native Lanvans – human, plant, or animal – have significant mutations as a result of eating food from toxic soil. They most commonly take on atavistic or deformed traits, especially around the ears, but the changes are myriad. The bison herds tainted by this are known as wronghorns; the humans are called wastelanders. Both have been deemed increasingly undesirable as Lanva grows ever more politically and economically important.

The war has only accelerated this change.

The wind and alchemy of Lanva made it the natural heart of aviation technology in Alovis. The Lanvan Aerie, with their skyships and rocket-powered infantry, has likewise quickly become the beating heart of the rebellion’s war efforts. Even the witches have taken note. Despite remaining officially neutral in the conflict, coven witches fleeing occupied areas in the east like Glorin and Miltahwark have frequently headed to Lanva, like many other marchers.

After all, the more people there are, the more souls to tend. And the Ministry of Souls is quite damaged, indeed.

Fermata.