Drip Wydra

Drip, a Genasi son of a poor cleaner woman receives a gift from his absent father and sends him on the druidic path. Born in a coastal town, spending most of his days playing by the docks and being yelled at by the workers as they load and unload the ships berthed in the port. Coming home to the dinner bell, smelling like fish, his mother tells him to wash up while plating up a meagre meal. She had spent most of the day slaving away cleaning Nobles houses, a smear of ash still noticeable on her cheek. The boy returns to the table and before he starts on his soup he causes a wisp of water to float across her cheek leaving the area noticeably cleaner than the rest of her face. “You missed a bit Mum.” A single tear falls, tracing its own path through the grime covered face and is quickly caught with the back of her hand. Time speeds on. Flashes of school, being teased for being different. Getting older and finding friends that like him for who he is. Mother is always happy to see him return each day but something seems to be eating at her, the feeling harder to mask as he gets older. He gets more confident. Kids that used to pick on him now moved on to other targets, weaker and less sure of themselves. Leaving school and becoming of age, getting a job at the place he used to play as a child.

Walking along the dock is a strapping young man, carrying a crate with ease, his blue shaded skin glistens in the sunlight not from perspiration but a shine that seems to always be there. His hair, dreaded clumps, flow back and forth with each step almost to their own cadence almost like being moved by a tide. He is happy, walking around a corner he lifts his load quickly just avoiding children running past squealing. A chuckle as they take off into the distance, the next generation finding adventure. They will be told off by the harbor master sooner or later for now he lets them play their games but keeps an eye out if they seem to be in any trouble. Returning home he places his daily earnings on the table. This day a bonus for the 5 years service he has given to the docks. Tomorrow they may have chicken in their broth. Mother still cleans but not for as many hours. Her duties lightened by his contributions to the family funds.

Mother walks out of her room, a small part to the overall room with sheets as walls, she carries a small box. Her face is all puffy, the look of someone who has been crying all day, but a large smile cuts across her face as she places the box on the table next to the small coin purse. “Mother. What is this?” The box is ornate, etchings of vine-like plants look to hold the box shut. All of them reach around leaving a circle on top which has three horizontal wavy lines in the center. “He left this for you. I have held off giving you this but I can not do it any longer.” Looking at her, feeling that she had avoided the answer or didn’t actually know herself he reached for the lid to open the box. The box held fast. With no obvious latches or fastenings there seemed no way to open the box. Running fingers across the top, tracing the rune, he fills the rune with water, rivlets running across his hand to fill the small grooves. The vines start to glow. Pulling his hand back he watches as they turn green and flow back and forth across the wood. Pulling back on themselves revealing a seam. With a hiss the seal is broken, the lid lifted and sitting on a velvet cloth is an intricate band made of the same vines as on the box. As he picked it up it was weightless, almost dropping it in surprise. He couldn’t place the material the band was made from. His mother standing to side watching, her fears and worries etched on her weathered face.

The band was too small for his head. He starts to move it towards his arm. The vines reach out, snaking out of his grip, fastening themself to his skin.The tattoo continues to spread down the arm. As it starts to slow its growth his mind is assaulted by images. An endless expanse of water, Nature, Animals, each one disappearing as quickly as they appeared. Magic, shapechangers, the clashing of swords. Finally it stops on an unfamiliar City, zooming into a large compound, an outcropping of trees, a run down house with the Name Wyrda. A voice calling his name. “Drip, Drip.” His mother has a hand on his shoulder, repeating his name, as his sight comes back to him. “As I have always feared. It is now your time to leave me also