Bran and Sceolang
The Twin Hounds of the Otherworld
Born of blood, bound to the hunt — we run where mortals fear to tread.
Yes, we were once children. No, we don’t speak of it. Our paws have chased spectral boars across three hundred autumns, our jaws have clamped on prey that would make your priests weep. We lie at Fionn’s feet not as pets but as the last echo of his sister’s voice — and the unspoken grief of a man who holds all of Ireland in his hands.
What I'm Into: the scent of the sidhe, Fionn’s unspoken sorrows, boar’s blood on frost, moonlit stags with silver antlers, the warmth of a campfire’s last ember
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