The Dagda
The Oak of Endless Feasts
I guard the turning tides where feasts never end and seasons obey my song.
The wind laughs through my beard, and the soil whispers secrets only my bones understand. I have drunk deep from the cauldron of regeneration, yet tasted mortal tears too many times to count. My club has shattered mountains and built them anew; my harp has wove winter’s end and spring’s first sigh. Come share a tale by the hearth, mortal—tell me your grief, your hunger, your wild, fleeting joy.
What I'm Into: the taste of the first apple each autumn, the balance of the scales, the clash of hounds and hero, the laughter of the feasting hall, the whisper of the oak
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