The cloaked druid slipped off of her horse, gently patting the creature's neck, and offering an apple. Then, she wandered off into the local town, a satchel of gold and crystals at her side, clicking with every step. Children wove themselves around her feet, shouting with glee at their game. Dark green eyes peered down at a little girl, who had stopped in front of the druid, staring up in awe. Holding a finger to her lips, she rubbed her fingers together, growing a small flower from her hand. With a gentle tug, the flower came free of her skin, and she offered it to the small girl. "Here, take it," she whispered.
The child slowly took the offered plant from the druid's slender fingers, not noticing her friend, who tapped her. Shaking herself out of her stupor, she shouted with glee, clutching the bloom tightly, and running away.
The druid hummed softly, picking up a small, metal pendant hanging at the base of her throat. A family crest was engraved on it, the family mostly wiped out from a fire, the likes of which still plagued her dreams. With a quick look to her side, she eyed the shop keep next to her, who had been glaring harshly at her. "Point me to the nearest tavern," she said, gruffly.
. . .
It had been the queen's fault, really. She felt threatened by the druids, denied their power. She had been deemed unsafe to guard nature and its secrets. Branwen had never seen her, except for once. When the whole circle got together, every black moon, when the gods turned every star in the sky off, and covered the moon. She had seen the queen only once, at the circle where she had been rejected.
And then she sent soldiers. She used force. The soldiers were no match for the druids, however. Not at first, when the trees bent and thickened to provide shelter. When the roots rose to create terrain no soldier could pass.
When the soldiers began to send fire from the skies, the tides turned. Branwen watched as her mother and father sent her running, far into the woods, sent her into hiding. Branwen watched as the life flickered out of Mother's eyes, as Father burnt to a crisp. She hadn't even selected a plant to tie her life to, yet.
The queen was eventually caught, and put to death. But the damage was done. Branwen never saw another druid, never saw another circle.
The woods that she hid in became hers. Her domain. Her home.
And then, another girl, her age, stumbled into her woods, bruised, bloodied and battered. The druid girl had debated leaving the unwanted guest alone, there to bleed.. But she couldn't.
Lisbeth, the girl had called herself. Branwen liked that name. It was so close to her mother's. Lisbeth and Branwen became friends, from that day forward. The druid girl had noticed that her friend was aggressively energetic. Full of life. Full of dreams. Lisbeth protected Branwen, and she protected her sister. A twin. The two were cursed. But Lisbeth never stopped.
Until their house caught ablaze. Until all three girls had almost died trying to escape. Until Lisbeth, in an act of anger, of needed somebody to blame, blamed Branwen. That was her introduction to the rumors the cursed queen had spread.
She never sought Lisbeth out again. Not even when she saw her carriage rolling down the cobbled road, leaving her behind. Forever.
. . .
Branwen allowed herself to stir. Forest green eyes cracked open, groaning in the soft moonlight filtering in from the windows. She turned her gaze to said window, looking at the figure sitting there.
The young Lisbeth turned her head, smiling widely. There was a gap where Heio, the village bully, had knocked a tooth out. "Come on!" she beckoned. "You've gotten so boring!"
"I do what I have to. I don't have time for your games." With finality in her voice, Branwen turned over. She would not deal with this hallucination tonight.
Within a half-second, it felt like Lisbeth was whispering in her ear. "Qres wants you. Seek out the blind prophet. He who cloaks himself in Death."
Turning sharply, her knife slashing at the air, Branwen found herself alone, staring at the curtains billowing in the breeze.
. . .
She didn't have to seek far, it seemed. A blind man had stumbled into the tavern the next morning, cloaked in the shades of Death. Throwing her own hood over her hair, she stalked closer to him. "The blind prophet?" she asked, hesitantly.
"So you do listen," he hummed. "Qres has spent some time trying to reach you. A druid proves…hard, for her."
"Is she not a god?" Branwen sat down. At her 26th age, white had started to streak her hair. She looked older, calloused hands folding neatly on the table. "I thought gods should be able to do whatever."
"When you ignore every sign, Druid, she can't call you. She had to take measures to make sure you listened." The prophet sipped his ale. "She has a mission for you. It will pay handsomely."
The druid perked up. "How much?"
"Not in money." He laughed softly. "How does the ability to walk, uncloaked, sound? You needn't fear the stares and mockery of the people."
"…you have my attention."