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# Druids

Story
The clearing was silent except for the slow drip of water from the trees. Moonlight gathered in the hollow like a pale pool, glinting off leaves slick with rain. At its center knelt the druid, naked and still, her body painted with ash and sap. Before her lay a stag, its flanks rising and falling in shallow rhythm, its eyes glassy but alive.
She laid her hand upon its chest. The pulse beneath her palm was weak but steady. She whispered words that were not prayer but memory, old sounds that the forest remembered even if no man did. Her fingers sank into the fur, and the breath left her lungs.
The stag's chest lifted once, twice, then went still. Vines stirred from the earth, curling around its legs and antlers. The druid bent forward and pressed her brow to its muzzle. For a long time, neither moved.
Then she stood. The vines fell away, the body turning dark and soft, returning to the soil almost as she watched. All around her, the forest seemed to sigh - a single, vast exhalation.
She touched her side where a new scar burned hot against her ribs. Her breath came ragged, but her eyes shone with quiet peace.
"Sleep," she murmured, looking down at the sinking shape. "Your strength is mine now. I will spend it well."
When she left the clearing, the grass rose behind her steps, new shoots unfolding in her wake. By morning, the stag was gone, but in its place grew a small tree with leaves the color of blood, and the forest whispered its name.

Guiding the cycle of life

Story
They told me it would be peaceful.
The druid's grove was quiet, almost beautiful, shafts of sunlight piercing the canopy, insects humming, the smell of damp earth thick enough to taste. The air itself felt alive, like it was watching. I was not bound; she said I didn't need to be. The roots would hold me when the time came.
She stood across from me, wreathed in vines, her skin marked in spirals of mud and blood. There was no cruelty in her face, only sadness, or maybe reverence. Behind her, the forest swayed though there was no wind.
"It must be done," she said softly. "The stream is dying. The earth hungers."
I wanted to run, but my feet had already sunk into the soil. The ground was warm, pulsing faintly, as though it had a heartbeat of its own. The druid raised her hand, and the vines around my legs tightened, not painfully, just firm, insistent.
The knife she carried wasn't metal, but bone, grown smooth by time. She pressed it to my chest. Her eyes were calm, almost gentle.
"Be still," she whispered. "You'll feed the spring."
The blade slid in, and the pain was not sharp but vast, spreading like roots through my body. My breath left me, and in its place came a rush of warmth, an impossible flood of life and color. I could feel the trees - every leaf, every worm in the soil, every heartbeat in the forest.
I was everywhere at once.
When I tried to cry out, moss filled my mouth, cool and sweet. The druid's voice was distant now, a low murmur of thanks. My vision darkened, and I felt the ground closing around me, soft and welcoming.
Somewhere far above, she said, "It is done."
I am not sure if I died. I can still feel the sun on my leaves when the wind moves. I can still hear her voice when she passes the clearing. And sometimes, when the rain falls heavy, I think I remember my name.

Changing forms

## The Keepers of the Cycle

Druids are the stewards of nature's rhythm, neither masters nor servants of the wild, but part of its endless exchange. They draw power not from gods or spirits, but from the life that pulses through root, river, and bone. To a druid, every creature, every leaf, every drop of blood is part of one great cycle, birth, decay, rebirth.

Unlike shamans, who bargain with spirits, druids manipulate the forces that bind life together. They can coax growth, mend wounds with living tissue, or command roots and beasts to act in unison. Yet every act of creation demands decay in return. A tree that grows too swiftly will take its strength from the soil around it; a wound healed without balance may draw vitality from another life nearby.

For druids, death is not an ending but a continuation, and the line between nurturing and destroying is as thin as a blade of grass.

## The Bond of Flesh and Root

Every druid carries a connection to the living world, a bond that deepens with time. Their senses stretch beyond the body, they can feel the sap moving in trees, hear the faint heartbeat of the soil.

This communion changes them. Their eyes grow moss-green, their skin roughens like bark, their veins darken with the color of leaves. Animals do not fear them. Deer approach, wolves sit beside them, birds rest in their hair. To nature, they are kin.

But this bond comes with risk. A druid who opens themselves too far may lose distinction between self and world. Some forget human speech, others abandon clothing or tools, living wild among beasts until they no longer answer to any name. A few dissolve entirely into the forest, becoming nothing more than trees that seem to sigh in human voices when the wind blows.

## The Rite of Blood

Druids hold that life's sanctity lies not in its preservation, but in its cycle. Everything feeds something else: the soil nourishes the plant, the plant feeds the beast, the beast returns to the soil. To deny this is to deny life itself.

Thus, sacrifice is no sin to them. Blood spilled is only a quicker return to balance. In times of famine or blight, druids perform blood rites to renew the soil, feeding life with life. The more devout do not even flinch at the thought of human sacrifice, for what are humans but another part of the cycle?

During the spring rites, a druid may open their own palm and let their blood drip into the soil beside the offering. The mingled fluids sink together, feeding the earth as one life. In the weeks that follow, the ground darkens and new growth emerges there first, stronger, but tinged with the same color as the druid's eyes.

Their ceremonies are quiet and unhurried. A song, a cut, a whispered prayer to the growing green. The forest accepts without judgment.

## The Mind Rooted in Seasons

To the civilized world, druids often seem strange, even cold. They speak of time as the forest does, in centuries, not years, and weigh decisions as though lives were leaves in the wind. Where others see tragedy, they see renewal. To them, rot is not corruption, but preparation for new life.

This view makes them powerful advisors but dangerous rulers. They care for balance, not comfort, for the future of the soil, not the grief of one village. Yet even so, people trust them, for the druids bring rain, heal plagues, and keep the land fertile.

The druid's detachment is not cruelty, but understanding, a love too vast to care for individuals.

## The Groves and the Wild Circles

Druids rarely gather, but when they do, it is in hidden groves where the earth hums beneath their feet. These circles are places of raw vitality, old oaks, stone rings, living pools, where life is thick enough to speak.

The druids of Elarune shape living trees into cities, bending trunks and branches into halls that breathe and grow. The wood shapers of the sea elves whisper to the living wood in their tree ships, shaping it. In Morvelyn's black forests, mystic druids sacrifice life to counter transformation. Together, the druids of Elarune, the sea elves, and Morvelyn embody the three faces of the cycle, growth, transformation, and rot, each tending a different heartbeat of the same living world.

Each circle interprets balance differently, growth, decay, or transformation, yet all are bound by the same law: nothing in nature is free from the cycle.

## The Cost of Connection

To manipulate life is to risk losing one's own. Every act of growth, every healing touch, draws vitality from the druid's body. The stronger the connection, the deeper the price. Their blood becomes soil, their skin becomes bark, their dreams filled with the pulse of roots growing endlessly in the dark.

Some are found years later, sleeping beneath trees that have grown around them, their bodies half-consumed by the forest. Others return to civilization but cannot stand the sound of iron or the smell of smoke. A few never return at all, their names carried on the wind through branches that sway when no breeze blows.

## The World's View

Druids occupy a strange place in the hearts of men. They are revered as healers of the land and feared as its avengers. Villagers bring offerings of milk and grain to the forest's edge, whispering their names like prayers. Lords call upon them to bless harvests or calm storms.

To harm a druid is said to bring famine, to anger one is to invite drought. Yet even kings hesitate to offer them gold, for the druid's loyalty belongs only to the soil, not to crowns.

They are not loved, but they are respected, and in a world built upon fragile balance, respect is enough.

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