Story 135: The Witch of the Wailing Woods

In a remote village nestled at the edge of the Wailing Woods, there was a legend that struck fear into the hearts of even the bravest souls. It was said that deep within the forest lived a witch so ancient and twisted by dark magic that her very presence could curdle the blood in your veins. Her name was whispered in hushed tones—**Morgatha.**

Morgatha was no ordinary witch. Her appearance was as terrifying as the tales told about her. Her face was a mass of wrinkles, each line telling a story of malevolence and dark deeds. Her eyes glowed with an unnatural light, piercing through the shadows like twin orbs of burning coal. Her hair, a tangled mess of silver and black, hung like a shroud around her bony shoulders. She wore tattered robes adorned with strange trinkets—bones, teeth, and amulets of unknown origin—all of which added to her terrifying visage.