The air hums with sorrow, thick as the mist that clings to the oaks of our sacred groves. I, Brenan, Druid of the Trinovantes, write these words not with ink upon parchment but with the fire of my soul. The invaders, the Romans, march ever deeper into our lands, trampling our fields and our freedom beneath their iron-clad heels. The spirits whisper of slaughter, of sacred groves burned, of our way of life threatened like a dying ember in the wind.
I have spent my days among the trees, seeking the wisdom of the gods, pleading for their guidance. I have seen omens in the flight of ravens, in the curling of oak leaves, in the restless cries of the wolves at dusk. The gods speak to those who listen, and they do not remain silent in times of strife.
Last night, under the waning moon, we made our offering. Deep within the heart of the sacred grove, we gathered—warriors, farmers, mothers clutching babes to their breasts, elders who had seen the rise and fall of kings. The air was thick with the scent of burning herbs and damp earth as we stood before the great stone altar, where the spirits of our ancestors still linger.
I stood at the altar clad in my ceremonial robes, woven from undyed wool, the color of storm clouds and old bone. Over my shoulders draped a heavy cloak of dark green, fastened at my breast with a silver brooch carved with the spirals of the Otherworld. Around my neck hung a torc of twisted gold, a symbol of my standing among my people, warmed by the heat of my skin. My wrists bore carved wooden beads, each marked with the symbols of the gods, strung together with sinew from the last stag we sacrificed in better times. At my side, a sickle, its blade curved like the crescent moon, gleamed in the firelight, its edge stained with years of sacred harvests—mistletoe, herbs of power, and, when the gods demanded, blood.
We gave unto the gods that which is most precious—life itself. A stag, strong and proud, taken from the wilds, its breath mingling with the wind as its spirit passed into the Otherworld. Its blood seeped into the soil, an offering to Taranis, the thunderer, whose wrath we call upon to shatter the Roman legions. To Epona, we placed the finest grains, beseeching her to guard our horses, swift as the wind, in battle. To Andraste, our fierce war goddess, we burned tokens of our warriors—blades touched with their own blood, a promise that they would fight without fear.
The flames leapt high, licking at the dark sky, and the trees whispered with unseen voices. A sign came—a great owl, silent as the grave, soaring overhead before vanishing into the void. A blessing? A warning? We shall soon see.
Word spreads that Boudica, our warrior queen, gathers her army. The Iceni rise, and we, the Trinovantes, shall not be left behind. The gods demand justice, and so do we. I will stand with my people, for a Druid’s duty is not only to the spirits but to the flesh and blood of his kin.
The Romans think us savages, but they do not know the power that stirs beneath this land, the old gods who awaken when their children are in need. They may have their legions, their roads, their cold, foreign gods, but we have something far older—something born of the rivers, the stones, and the blood of our ancestors.
Let the storm come. We are ready.
Brenan, Druid of the Trinovantes
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