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I have felt his hand in my craft since the first spark leapt from my staff and sang to the stars. He is the Great Father. Not of blood, but of knowing. The keeper of secrets buried beneath roots and stone. His laughter shakes the hills; his silence teaches more than any sermon of kings. When I call the winds, it is his breath that moves them. When I weave a charm to heal or to harm, it is his knowing that guides my trembling hands. He is not a god of restraint, no. He delights in fullness, in life unbound. That is the lesson I have ever tried to teach the blind lords and trembling acolytes: that wisdom is not the absence of desire, but the mastery of it. In him, I see my reflection - a jester and a judge, a maker of miracles, and a fool for love of the world. He taught me that even the mightiest spell must serve the song of life, not the vanity of the hand that casts it. And so, when I walk between realms, whispering to ghosts and kings alike, I carry the Dagda's tune within me.The world calls me wizard. But I am, in truth, only the Dagda's echo. A ripple of his great, laughing wisdom in mortal form. | |