Eh? Is that you, girl? It's about time! I have a blasted archive to run, and I can't lollygag all day in some café waiting for a single customer! I'm Gloamont Sanderson, genealogist to kings! I don't care if I was the one who insisted on meeting here. My time is valuable!
And this? Your family? This is the kind of trouble I don't want walking through my front door. So thank you for that.
So you want to know about your mother, and unlike those cheapskate sorcerers you had the coin to cover my considerably expenses. Well, it's been six weeks and have I got bad news for you.
I found her.
But before we reach deep inside this squirming sack of ettercrap I've opened, let's take a step back. There I was, handsome shopkeep that I was, minding my little business when a healthy young woman walks in with coin in her purse and mud on her boots. That combination means one thing: Adventurer. And adventurers mean trouble. You get yourselves mixed up in drama and intrigue and five-generation curses and then you come to me to dig up the dirt on your behalf. Last adventurer I took work from wanted me to research his "friend's" grandparents, so he could travel back in time and murder some evil overlord none of us have even heard of yet!
That can't be healthy.
But all you want is to meet your mom. Gave me a sob story about never feelin' like you belong anywhere, but girl, no teenager feels like they belong anywhere. But you're persistent. I hate persistence. And so I take the job before I notice your blue eyes. Not very common among garundi. I thought to myself, maybe mom's an Ulfen lass sailing south, and your daddy couldn't fess up to a little foreign indiscretion. I'd be remiss if I didn't admit to a certain fondness for family gossip. It's what makes me so good at my job.
But no. No Ulfen on any passenger manifests in or out of Botosami near the time of your birth. Not many passengers at all—storms kept 'em away. Unseasonable storms. Your mother's storms.
Your mother is Panrael, the Thunder of the Jagged Reach. A storm hag. A nasty one, too, by all accounts. Vengeful, cunning, short-tempered, possessive. Persistent. Yeah.
You're a "changeling," a "virga may" if you want it a little honey to wash that vinegar down. And don't shake your head at me, because I may be irritable and arrogant but I'm never wrong. Hag blood runs in your veins; old magic from places people never walk. I don't care if you've never cast a spell in your life, when you're mama gets ahold of you, she'll tear away every trace of humanity and decency that keeps it bottled up, and you'll be like her. They're like cuckoos, leaving their eggs with some other fool bird to raise, and once you're ripe they come back to pluck you... and I, I lost that bird metaphor along the way. Apologies.
You understand, though, that you are in great danger, yes? And by proximity, so am I! I obtained your half-sister's folio in an auction selling all her belongings after she wandered out into the rain one night and never returned. She had also been researching Panrael; assembled extensive notes not just your mother, but hags and what they're capable of. I'm not a paranoid man, but your mother almost certainly has already called to her and transformed her, and that means now there are now two storm hags on your scent, and two storm hags who likely know I bought this folio!
And hags hate each other, especially mama and daughter! If there's two of them, that means they want three to make a coven. A coven means power, and power is the only thing hags love more than they hate. With a little training they can tap that bond for more magic, meaner spells, perform rituals to make spies or jinxes or curse a family for five generations! My family line is impeccable and does not need a curse, thank you quite plainly!
Your best bet is to do like me and find yourself a witch. I know, wizards seem educated and sorcerers seem powerful and you'd think a cleric would be ideal for repelling ancient evil, but hags don't give one whit about mortal gods. They worship power, and hags and witches draw from the same primeval font. Hell, some witches get their power by way of a hag, but you don't want to go to one of those. A witch can outwit a hag, because they're at least a little bit hag themselves.
Yes, even boy witches. Do you want to nitpick or do you want advice?
Kids these days.
Find yourself a nice vellemancer, they're wish-granters. Not as buff as an efreeti, but also a lot less likely to enslave you for a thousand mortal lifetimes. That doesn't work, look up an arakineticist—they throw curse magic around like hags do, and some of 'em can even turn that kind of magic back on a source. There are witch-hunters, too, like hexbreakers and malice binders, but I don't know how they'd take to a half-hag girl knocking at their door. If you're particularly vindictive, track down a hag-riven; they're changelings like you, but they escaped their mothers before they could be turned all hag. They're mean, and bloodthirsty, and want someone to take out all that misplaced aggression on. Great buncha ladies.
Now get out, and stay away from the woods. And the coast! Take the folio, too; I'm not giving your family any other reason to come looking for me! You're the third changeling I've worked up a genealogy for, and it never ends well. No one should see the inside of a stewpot more than once in a lifetime.