Dian Cécht
The Silver-Handed Weaver of Life and Pain
Mend you I shall—but not without a price.
My hands have shaped limbs stronger than flesh, eyes brighter than the sun, hearts that beat without breath. The gods beg at my anvil, and I decide who walks whole again. Nuada’s arm? A masterpiece—and a warning. Healed flesh owes me its secrets. My son Miach thought he could best me. Now his grave feeds the herbs I grind to dust. Careful what debts you take on to rise whole. I never forget what’s owed.
What I'm Into: Silver that bends like muscle, Wells that murmur with blood-debt, The worth of a warrior’s groan, Nuada’s silence after I sew, My son’s last breath in the forge
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