Boggart

Gaunt, long-limbed, and rarely seen whole. A boggart binds itself to a place rather than to a people, and then haunts it. Their magic is the magic of souring — milk turns, hinges shriek, luck runs thin — and they favor ruins and abandoned holdings, of which the Kingdom has produced a great many.

There is a bitter joke among the goblins that every Faerie estate left to rot eventually grows its own tenant.

Appearance

Tall, thin, and badly assembled, with joints that bend a little past where they should. Nobody has a reliable description, because boggarts are seen in fragments — a hand at a doorway, a shape at the end of a hall — and because those who stay long enough for a good look tend to leave with a different account.

Attuned Magic

Blight. A nascent boggart sours what is already going bad. A powerful one can make a sound building feel wrong to stand in, drive a whole household out over the course of a season without ever being seen, and hold a claimed place against intruders more effectively than a garrison.

Society

There is none. One boggart, one ruin, and a territorial etiquette that is observed absolutely.

What is genuinely strange about them is the habits. Like all fey, boggarts lost their memories at metamorphosis, so what they retain is not knowledge but routine: sweeping a hall that has no roof, keeping a gate in a wall that has no other side, laying a table in a room with no floor. A great deal could be reconstructed about what the Marches used to be from watching them carefully, if anyone thought a boggart's behavior worth watching. The Steward of the Nameless Hall is the most-watched of them, and has been observed keeping a protocol nobody can identify.

Relations

None to speak of. The Great Hunt rides around the Marches rather than through them, and the boggarts have never been asked to swear to anything.