A Day in the Life of Old Vhalin, the Wandering Druid

Vhalin’s day begins before the sun lifts its golden head over the ridge. The sky is a soft grey-blue, and dew still clings to the leaves when he rises. He pads softly into the kitchen—barefoot, as always—and prepares his mushroom tea. Earthy, intense, and topped with just a whisper of salt. Mira was already at the counter, her nimble paws folding smoked fish into a warm mash of grains and herbs—something hearty to start the day.

“You know it still tastes like regret,” she said, not even glancing up.

“And yet,” he replied, placing a mug beside her, “you never say no to the first cup.”

“I’ve given up on resisting,” she said, accepting the mug. “But I’ve improved it.”

He watched as she swirled in a ribbon of honey, added a generous splash of milk, and—finally—a modest pinch of salt. His whiskers twitched at the sight.

“I still say it’s best plain,” he offered.

“You would.” Mira took a sip and paused, savoring it with a small, thoughtful breath through her nose. “Still tastes like regret.”

She sipped again. “But it’s a sweeter, milkier kind of regret.” she chuckles with her whiskers twitching with amusement.

Vhalin chuckled softly, sipping his own mug—earthy, intense, unaltered. “All you need is a pinch of salt.”

“I’ve never doubted the salt,” she said with a grin. “Just everything else.”

They sit on the porch, feet up, steam curling between them like a lazy spirit. Their fur, still sleek from sleep, catches the morning light. The two old Ottryn—small, spry, and silver-whiskered—watch the waking woods. Birds begin their morning songs. The raccoons have stolen another pear. Life, Vhalin thinks, is quiet and steady in its joy.

After tea comes breakfast—some roots, fruit, toasted graincake with honey. While Mira hums softly by the open window, Vhalin pads out into the garden, the soft loam cool beneath his paws. The moss under the ancient pine is thick and springy, brushed with dew. He settles there, breathing in the hush of the morning. His eyes drift shut, not in trance, but in quiet invitation. A whisper of wind brushes past his whiskers. He tastes the humidity in the air, hears the creak of a bending reed far off by the pond, feels the subtle pressure in his ears that speaks of heavy clouds not yet visible.

He listens. Not just with ears, but with every line of his body—his fur, his bones, the pads of his fingers pressed into the moss. The garden speaks. The sky, too. Southward, there is moisture but no fall. The pond grove is overripe with shade. Jun’s Rest bakes under a still hush. And east—his nose twitches—earth too damp, the scent of water turned wrong.

His eyes open slowly. The truth has come, as it always does: quiet, certain, and waiting to be answered.

His whiskers twitch in the shifting breeze. Rain brushes the southern edges of his land, but won’t fall. The grove by Turtle Pond is overgrown, muggy, and moss-thick. Jun’s Rest is hot and brittle. And in the east, something’s gone wrong. The soil is saturated. A sharp shift. Flooding—Elor’s field.

He returns inside, wiping his paws absently on his robe, and pulls his battered, leatherbound ledger from the shelf. Mira glances at him over her mug.

“Elor’s field flooded this morning,” he says, not without concern. “I’ll do the rounds first, then at midday, we’ll go visit. Bring the pie.”

“Always with the pie,” she replies, already rolling back her sleeves.

The ledger opens with a satisfying creak. Ink-splotched and water-stained, it’s more than a record of duties. It’s a map of kindness, woven in responsibility—notes taken just moments ago after his quiet morning in the moss, when the winds whispered truths and the soil breathed secrets into his bones. Each entry reflects the land’s soft requests, now laid down in careful, practiced ink: