Wynhollow

Setting Description - Third Competition for NaNoWriMo Prep 2025

Notes ▼

Describe a setting in words. Use all five senses and make your reader experience the setting as if he or she were there

It is said that the continent of Elaris is the last bastion of magic left in the world, and as I have only ever encountered Elarians, this could well be true.

I’ve always lived in the quiet county of Wynhollow. I was born and raised here. And, up until recently, the lush, mist-covered valley and the ancient forests and mossy hills that surround it have always felt like home. But like the ley quakes that have twisted and torn open the countryside in recent years, change can come out of nowhere.

Wynhollow is the hidden jewel in Syl-Wyn’s crown, just as Syl-Wyn is the envy of all the regions within Elaris, at least if you listen to my grandmother.

Situated between the coastal city of Veylith in the south, which is renowned for its sea temples and ley tide observatories, and Tharnwyn Hold in the north, where the fortress-city meets the Tharn mountain range and separates Syl-Wyn’s temperate forests and river valleys from Lumfen’s radiant, bioluminescent marshlands, Wynhollow is a bustling midpoint for traders trying to ply their wares, and enforcers on their way to garrison the fortress.

Throughout the surrounding countryside, converted farm buildings and picturesque, timber-framed cottages with thatched roofs and walls laced with ivy or honeysuckle vines are scattered along the meandering roads as they follow the valley's contours. In the summer months, those walls are a buzz with pollinators, especially around Widow Nolan’s cottage and apiary.

The town square and the surrounding streets are the heart of our community. Stone terraced houses with mullioned windows and slate tiled roofs line the narrow roads to the town centre. The central square, marked with its wooden pavilion, is surrounded by four cobblestone streets and bracketed by an array of artisan shops, tea rooms, and the Hallowed Knot tavern.

This morning, the human traders tend the busy market stalls, each one trying to outdo their neighbour and entice potential buyers to sample their products. Their voices ring out with promises of the finest produce; pitchers of fresh milk, hard cheddars and soft goats cheese, and baskets of duck eggs from the O’Leary’s farm, jars of local honey and fruit compotes from Widow Nolan’s orchards, pressed apple juice and bottles of sparkling cider from the Quinn brothers, as well as freshly caught game, already plucked and hung, cured meats, and baked cobbs of bread.

My mouth salivates at the smell and begs for a taste; one mere morsel.

Tonight, the smell of spit-roasted hogs and ale will permeate the air, as patrons spill out from the tavern and into the streets. Lutists and folk singers will serenade us with live music, while we spin and twirl amongst closely packed bodies and dance around the Litha sabbat pyres until our feet hurt and sweat clings to the small of our backs. It isn’t perfect, but it's familiar and comforting.

Instead, I step over the wooden stile and follow the well-trodden crown lane through the open fields and farmlands, as I make my way home, towards the coven. I hum along with the large bluestones and holloliths that mark a path towards the dense forest on the eastern border of the town. The energy they resonate makes the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand up. There are times in the quiet that I almost hear them speak my name.

My arms are laden with supplies for the coven’s feast tonight. A celebration of Litha, to honour the longest day of the year. I’m not invited. I’m not a member of the coven. I never was. Instead, I’m their errand girl. Stuck trudging through roughly grazed grass and avoiding nosy bovine and their freshly deposited cow pats.

But what makes Wynhollow truly exceptional is not the transient and eclectic clientele, nor the rugged beauty of the landscape, although they undoubtedly contribute. It’s the ley lines and nodes that the township is built around. A convergence of magical threads of energy that lie just beneath the earth’s surface and weave our world together.

It's why my ancestors chose this location to rebuild the Virelai coven 500 years ago, when they fled Noctkar, in the far north of Elaris, after a series of ley quakes and storms had destroyed the region’s most prominent cities.

It’s also why Wynhollow is a hub for all things mystical and supernatural.

The Virelai estate is situated near the town. Set back from the road, behind tall hedges and wrought-iron fences, the Great House is a large and imposing structure. Decorative and ornate friezes; curved, weather-beaten pillars; elaborate porches and balconies; and large stained-glass windows greet me as I make my way up the driveway, gravel crunching beneath my feet, while I’m flanked on either side by precisely positioned rose bushes and pruned topiary.

I pass the reflecting pool in the centre of the courtyard, and head towards the side of the building where the servant entrance is, to drop off the market produce.

As a child, I had climbed the front steps, played beneath the grand entrance hall’s domed ceiling, and traced the patterns of the spiral flame sigil on the mosaic floor, but now I am not permitted to enter the main house. That is only for the weavers and their initiates.

The only exception is the library and its adjoining study halls, where I assist Sister Elowen to preserve the coven’s legacy by maintaining and restoring its most ancient and valuable incantations.

Tall wooden bookcases climb the walls to the ceiling, with endless rows of shelves laden with leather-bound books, family grimoires, and tightly wrapped scrolls. Large oak tables line the central atrium, with clusters of uncomfortable study chairs surrounding them.

Opposite the carved set of entrance doors is the enchanted index desk. The central runed desk glows softly with magical inscriptions while floating index cards hover above the surface, each inscribed with shimmering ink that updates in real time.

A hovering orb projects a 3D holographic visualisation of the library onto a central table, showing book locations, scroll drawers, and active study zones. I love to watch the books glow on the map when they are summoned by name or subject, with pathways lit up to guide the researcher to the correct shelf or drawer.

The feel and smell of ink and paper are etched on my soul, as well as my skin. It feels like peace. It’s the only real sanctuary in my otherwise lonely existence.

At the back of the estate, past the fragrant herbal gardens and greenhouses, is the entrance to the Forest of Anam. The mist-shrouded woodland is saturated with deep ley resonance and ancestral spirits, and it surrounds a powerful, central node: the Heartring.

The energy here is unusually stable and vibrant, making it a sacred site for the coven’s magical rituals, sabbat ceremonies, and healing. It’s their most sacred site, and as such, it is forbidden for anyone but the coven to enter its boundaries.

At its centre stands the stone circle. Nine large sarsen stones, weathered by the elements and tinged with a rusted blush of the iron they contain. No one knows where the stones came from, at least no one living. The nearest quarry is a full moon cycle’s ride on horseback, and the stones there are dull and lack the visually striking veins of raw metal. They surround the ruins of the sandstone altar. The altar I destroyed ten years ago. Its back is still broken, and the deep fissures across its surface have crumbled further into decay.

The forest itself acts as a barrier, keeping the uninitiated and the mundane away.

Saturated with echoes of residual ley energy from generations of past weavers and ley-bound beings, it’s one of the few places where the Echo Path can be felt naturally, making it once a powerful place for necromancers, before they, like the bloodborne, were banished from Elaris.

Within the Whispering Grove, the cluster of ancient oaks, ash, and elms is said to be sentient conduits, whispering memories to those who listen. Some say they speak in dreams or prophecy.

Those few brave and foolish souls who venture uninvited into the warren of bark are lost to madness and never quite the same if they are unlucky enough to be found.

To the south of the forest lies Cauldron Falls. The towering waterfall cascades from the cliffs at the edge of Blooming Hollow and plunges into a deep, circular, ley-charged basin surrounded by smooth, black stones. The stones vibrate when touched and are etched with long-forgotten glyphs that glow faintly.

The water vapour from the falls carries ley particles that create shimmering rainbows and occasional spirit apparitions when the light catches them just right.

The Cauldron is said to be a natural ley rupture, where the converged ley lines once breached the surface. If you are quiet, you can hear the ancestral whispers in the mist; fragments of memory carried by the ley-charged water. Legend says the Cauldron was formed when a weaver sacrificed herself to seal a ley fracture. Some of the coven even believe that the falls are sentient, responding to emotional energy and revealing visions to those who approach with reverence.

It’s where I go to harvest the memory root.

It’s where I am right now.

Barefoot. Feet squelching in the soft mud of the riverbed at the edge of the falls as I pluck the stubborn roots from between the slippery rocks, trying to keep my balance while the water rushes past me and over the cascades.

My foot trips on a sharp stone, hidden beneath the water, and I fall backwards. Arms flying out like a bird in a feeble attempt to stop my descent through the air. My back hits the water’s surface first, hard, forcing the air out of my lungs. My head hits it next. Pain radiates from the back of my skull, but fades to nothing as I sink beneath the waters.

[1660 words]