Kingstone

What the Stones Remember...

Before the first Maelstrom tore open the skies, before the goblins dug their first tunnel or the bees sang their first song… the stones were there.

Twelve of them. Set in a wide circle just outside the woods, where the grass grows short and strange, and the wind always seems to know more than it says.

No carvings. No writing. No throne or altar.
Just stones — tall, weathered, and watching.

They call it Kingstone now. Not because of the Woodland King.
He keeps his distance. Most do.

Some say it was once a meeting place.
A place where old powers gathered to agree on what the world should be.


Others say it’s a grave, or a warning, or the last echo of a vanished people.

The truth? Well… no one knows.
Not even the Oldest Oak remembers.
And if he doesn’t remember… it must be old.

The goblins avoid it.
Even Grobbelobelob only got as far as the edge. He said it felt… thin.
Like the ground wasn’t quite sure what it wanted to be.

Foxes won’t cross it.
Bees won’t fly over it.
And birds — well, birds go quiet if they pass above by mistake.

The stones don’t move.
But they watch.
And sometimes — when the fog settles low and the moon hangs full — they listen.

Fishwhip thinks they’re part of an ancient calendar.
Plugdung says it’s a seating plan for something terribly important.


GRiNdaL swears it’s just the tops of twelve giants who fell asleep during a very boring war.

But none of them stay there long.
Because now and then, when the world is quiet, you might feel something —
A shift in the air.
A weight in your bones.
Like the land is remembering… something.

And if you stand in the centre of that circle, very still, and the wind turns just right…
you might remember it too...and you might wish you hadn't