Second Coven Rough Backstory

Rough Backstory:
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Wind'mar to the lake
There lies a sleepy hamlet
Where dreaming humans wake
The drowsy kenning-rats
There we've hid our sacred vats
Full of berries
And the reddest stolen cherries

Come away, O human child!
From the waters and the wild
With one and all in hand
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand

A Lochsheer girl born to a retired Inquisitor and his half-elven wife; a convert to the faith.  Both of them were deeply pious and deeply superstitious, but to different ends.  They had known each other for seven years before her birth; the event was as much a relief to the villagers as to them.

She grew up thin and pale, with an appetite that belied her size and an unnerving gaze.  She would speak of voices and go into fits, converse with saints and angels invisible to others.  Her father did what he could to keep the whispers at bay.  He taught the girl the tricks he knew to ward away Witches and other evil things; the power of iron and faith and blood.  Her mother taught her other ways.  Older ways.  A cow's first milk, mistletoe and wolfsbane, knots and signs within and without the One.

They helped. Herself and her kin.  She had a knack for knowing which signs were of the heathen and which were of the weak.  She could taste the magic, as it returned; sickly-sweet as her mother said it would be.  The more she solved, the more she needed to solve, the more the folk trusted her.  The whispers became reverent, a child touched by the One.  And weren't all those truly touched by the divine somewhat...off?  Her mother said as such, with the songs she dared not sing and the words she dared not speak.

Where her mother did not speak, the stories spoke for her.  Her mother's texts were apocryphal, her veneration of saints was heterodox, and her rituals near heresies.  But when the girl heard the saints ten years ago, they spoke as her mother did.  When her father told her war stories, she felt pity for the deluded witches.  The saints told her the secrets of the world, the true miracles heathens merely imitated.  When she came of age, and her father sent her off to follow in his footsteps, they came to her as breathing did. Her talents were undeniable, her faith unassailable.  She knew her fate when she was but a child, and it was glorious.  She could walk among the wicked and the witches; she knew them better than they knew themselves.

Some may think her a fool; she knew beyond their ken.  Some may think her mad; the only madness were those "Good Servants" who followed not the tenants.  Some may think her weak; the country made her stronger than any city folk.

Some may even consider her a witch.  They will know the truth, one way or the other.  The One's work will be done.