'Bealach an Draoi Fiáin' - Way of the Wild Druid

[Púca]

'Roughly translated upon stone in a Druidic language Unknown, the following tale is told, who knows how old'

"Beware the Servants of the Beast"

"He who walked the Path, and missed a step. He who found mad refuge in the heart of a Black Blooded Beast"

"Wolf-Walker of the Blooded, Diolliún as he was known, a gifted son born under a pale moon"

"Mania, the wriggling Moray, that which seeped, which claimed his mind"

"He who blooded the lands, who spreads disturbed balance. He who defied tradition and claimed only madness, who sullied his birth with every breath"

"A Wolf wearing the Skin of a Man, the serpent that defiles that which it can"

"His skin tattoo'd with the blood of his Hunts. His Forest cries which curdled the blood. His mad eyes, his strange ways"

"Take heed our Walkers of the Way, Take heed of the price which Diolliún paid"


'These words are all accompanied by carvings of knotwork and cultural symbols, a man shedding his skin to reveal a disgusting beast, a serpent wriggling up and down the stone in swirling motions. The painted artwork is faded, the stone overgrown and chipped, an apparent sign of the disrespect and degradation bestowed upon the Druid mentioned It sits on an Island overlooking the Isle of Moray'

 

[Púca]

'What was Druidism?'

It was something he had thought often, leaving the Isles so young.
Of course, he'd learned the rituals, the tongue, he understood balance and his role in it, the importance of the natural world and it's preservation.

But/What/Was/It?

For one who wandered, separate from their insulated circles, their comforting echo chambers, who were they? what did they do?
Díolliun had waded through a Storm like no other in destination-less travel, moving only on whispers of those like him.
Druids in a land that needed it.

He eventually happened upon Murann, a hulking city of stone and trade.
And it seemed he wasn't the only one, many flocked to it's gates seeking refuge from the never-ending storm.
Of course the locals took advantage of it, the bands of coinless hordes were sent out to deal with whatever pests had been botherin them.
Clans of Kobolds, Packs of Gibberlings, Tribes of Goblins.

The city itself was an abomination, stinking of Piss and Death in it's most regal of perfume.
Though Díolliun couldn't leave it so easily, many would assume the Storm was the obstacle, but with enough determination he'd have found refuge somewhere else.
The facts were, with so many roaming bands in the area and so little Druids, Díolliun had a duty to the forests of this place.

And so he made himself an invaluable ally to many.
His spear joined many a hunt, His understanding of the natural world preventing needless overhunting of native wildlife population.
Gibberlings, Goblins, Kobolds, Vicious Bandits and even Adventurers. he made his presence known in the lands.
The natural world would not be defiled where he walked.

The Druid could have prattled on about balance and cycles, but even he understood there was a satisfaction there.
the Hunt was intoxicating.

Though by partaking in this natural way of life, he knew what his people would label him.
"Malarite, Blackblood, Wildman."
As if the hunt was his domain and his alone, as if the crimes of the father made the son complicit.

He didn't know what he was, Malarite, Sylvanite or something else entirely.

For a time, it didn't matter, he'd gained purpose in this place.
He'd learned more of a Druid's place in this world by getting lost in a Storm than he ever did back in Moonshae.
There'd be time to battle the errors of faith later. The Storm only grew. Constant battement and assault of the land beneath giving rise to new Problems for the surrounding area.
Earthquakes, Rainstorms, Monstrous populations rising to the surface, migrating beasts threatening territories.

If this was the natural world, it was changing.
And if it wasn't the natural, These lands were going to need all the Druids they could get.