Kere’s Backstory

  Kere Brynan's Journal

  Mareday, 8 Tamihr, Year of Folivor the Restful Sloth, 489 AWA

  The sunrise over the eastern waters was particularly stunning this morning—shifting from deep violet to fiery orange before settling into that perfect shade of turquoise that reminds me of the rare coral beds off Maraeva Point. I sat on my favorite rock shelf for nearly an hour, just taking it all in. Some days I think I could be content simply witnessing the sea's ever-changing beauty.

  I've always assumed my connection to water has something to do with the fact that I'm Half-Aquatic-Elf. The way the sunlight filters through the waves speaks to me in ways I struggle to explain to others. Even as a child, I could sense the difference between the currents on calm days versus stormy ones. I can feel it in my body—when the tide is about to shift, when a storm is brewing beyond the horizon. These feelings don't come as organized thoughts but as intuitive pulses, like the water itself flows through my veins.

  Father—Dawyn—never really understood this connection, though he tried. He's a sorcerer, practical in his own way despite his magical talents. When I was very young, before Mother came into our lives, he would carry me down to the shore at sunrise. I think he hoped I might somehow sense my birth mother's presence in the waves. He doesn't talk much about her, but sometimes when he watches me swim, I catch a look in his eyes—a mixture of wonder and sadness.

  My room back home is filled with treasures I've collected over the years—not gold or jewels, but objects with deeper meaning. A piece of driftwood carved by the tide into the perfect shape of a dolphin's leap. A polished piece of deep blue sea glass that perfectly matches the sapphire color of my eyes. A small jar of sand from the first beach where I realized I could hold my breath underwater twice as long as the village children. Each item is carefully labeled and arranged, not just haphazardly collected. Each carries a memory, a feeling I want to preserve.

  Mother—Daxylla—came into our lives when I was still very small. She studied wizardry at the Mages' Guild alongside Father. The story goes that she began helping him care for me after noticing how exhausted he was trying to balance his studies and raising a child alone. They married when I was eighteen months old. Where Father is sometimes distant in his thoughts, Mother brings warmth and understanding. She tells me I used to create chaos with her first familiar, an unfortunate hedgehog named Rocky. Apparently, I would carry the poor creature around and bounce him on blankets until he had a nervous breakdown. I still feel a pang of guilt when I see hedgehogs.

  When I turned eight, I begged to begin druid training. The sea creatures—especially dolphins—had always been drawn to me, and I to them. I would spend hours watching them, trying to mimic their movements in the water. Father refused, insisting I needed a broader foundation of knowledge first. His decision crushed me, but instead of arguing, I found my own path. I volunteered at the Candibaru Nature Center, where I could at least be close to the sea life I loved.

  The Nature Center became my sanctuary. Though located inland in the foothills of the Sepina Mountains, it housed many marine specimens collected from coastal expeditions. While other children played games in the village square, I would sit for hours sketching the intricate patterns of sea anemones or the graceful movements of manta rays in the Center's saltwater pools. Each sketch was dated and carefully preserved in waterproof folders I made myself. Master Elwin, who runs the Center, once found me sitting cross-legged on the observation deck, eyes closed, swaying slightly with the rhythm of a recording of whale songs. "You feel it more deeply than most," he said. It was the first time someone had recognized what I'd always known.

  The druids who worked at the Center fascinated me. Many belonged to the Sapphire Society, dedicated to protecting Andovarra's seas. I would watch them transform into sea creatures, their bodies shifting and flowing like the water itself. They never let me join their underwater inspections—"not without proper training," they'd say—but sometimes they would bring back small tokens for me: a uniquely shaped piece of coral, an unusual shell, or stories of what they'd seen in the depths.

  At fifteen, I broke my usual cautious nature and went diving with Tallen, a boy from the village who shared my fascination with the sea. We discovered an underwater cave with a narrow entrance, glittering with phosphorescent algae in the darkest corners. It felt like entering another world, one made just for us. We let ourselves be carried away by the moment, diving deeper than we'd planned. Then came the jigsaw shark. The serrated teeth. The cloud of Tallen's blood in the water. The panic. I still dream about it sometimes—the look in Tallen's eyes as the shark clamped onto his arm.

  Then, like something from an old legend, a pod of dolphins appeared, driving the shark away with their powerful bodies. I remember the largest dolphin turning to look at me before swimming away, its eye seeming to hold ancient wisdom. I made a small clay sculpture of that dolphin afterward, capturing that moment of connection. It sits beside my bed still.

  After that day, dolphins began appearing whenever I entered the water, sometimes within moments. I developed a ritual before swimming: seven deep breaths, followed by tracing the dolphin symbol in the sand with my toe. It might be superstition, but it feels right. The ritual grounds me, prepares me for what might come. That day with Tallen taught me that beauty and danger often swim side by side in the depths.

  Nine years ago, on the morning of my eighteenth birthday, I went to my special place—a hidden cove north of Maraeva that I'd discovered years earlier while exploring the coastline. The sheltered cove spread before me like a painting—crystalline water gradating from pale turquoise in the shallows to deep azure further out, all protected by two jutting arms of weathered limestone that form part of the tall cliffs surrounding it on three sides. The water there is so clear that on calm days, you can see straight to the sandy bottom even at its deepest point. The air was cooler here than up in Candibaru, carrying hints of sea salt and the sweet decay of seaweed drying on the rocks.

  This small, crescent-shaped beach is nearly invisible from both land and sea unless you know exactly where to look. Most travelers who find the cliffs above the cove have no idea there's beach access below. I discovered it by accident—following a narrow, winding deer path that cuts through a fissure in the eastern cliff face. The trail descends steeply through a series of switchbacks before finally opening onto a perfect stretch of sand. Only those who know to look for the small stone cairn I built can find the hidden entrance among the coastal scrub vegetation.

  I'd begun to practice my druid skills there in private, away from curious eyes. That morning, as dawn broke over the eastern horizon, I waded into the water and began my ritual. The sea was particularly calm, reflecting the sky like polished glass. I closed my eyes, feeling the gentle push and pull of the tide against my legs, and began to hum the melody my grandfather had taught me—a song he claimed the old sailors used to sing to call friendly spirits from the deep.

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  I don't know how long I stood there, lost in the song and the sensation of water swirling around me, but suddenly I felt a presence. Opening my eyes, I found myself surrounded by a small pod of dolphins, swimming in a perfect circle around me. Among them was a young dolphin calf, not much more than a year old. She had a band of white unpigmented skin at the base of her dorsal fin and a white crescent moon marking about six inches in front of that—markings that made her distinct and memorable. She broke from the circle and approached me, her dark eye meeting mine with what I could only describe as recognition.

  Something shifted within me in that moment. I felt my consciousness expand, reaching out toward her mind like water flowing into water. For a breathtaking instant, I experienced the world through her senses—the vibration of sounds through water, the magnetic pull of the earth guiding her direction, the joyful sensation of cutting through waves at full speed. Then she touched her bottlenose gently to my outstretched palm.

  The connection formed between us was unlike anything I'd ever experienced—not like casting Speak with Animals, but deeper, like finding a missing piece of myself. I knew her name was Meri, though I couldn't explain how. She wasn't called that in any humanoid language; it was more like an impression, a feeling of identity that translated in my mind to "Meri."

  Since that day, Meri has been my companion. She doesn't stay with me constantly—she has her pod and her own life in the ocean—but she always comes when I call, appearing at the edge of my cove within minutes. I've carved a special whistle from driftwood that makes a sound that carries underwater for miles. I studied dolphin acoustics for weeks to get the precise tone and pattern that would carry through water. Somehow, no matter how far away she is, she hears it.

  I've spent countless hours in Meri's Cove, as I now call it, learning to communicate with her more clearly. She's taught me how to move efficiently through water, how to hold my breath longer, how to sense changes in current and temperature. In return, I've shared with her my knowledge of coastal dangers—fishing nets, boat traffic, areas where humans dump waste. We protect each other. I've watched her grow from a playful calf into a graceful young dolphin, still several years away from maturity. There's something special about having witnessed her growth over these years.

  There's a flat rock at the edge of the cove where I sometimes sit for hours, sketching Meri as she plays in the waves or watching the sunset reflect on her sleek body as she leaps. I've filled three waterproof journals with these sketches, each one dated and annotated with observations of her behavior. On the underside of this rock, hidden from view, I've carved our names together in the ancient script Mother taught me. It's our secret place, known only to us.

  When I turned twenty, I began working on fishing boats out of Afa Masina harbor. Grandfather had suggested it—he believed experiencing the sea from all perspectives would deepen my connection to it. Unlike the other deckhands who saw fish merely as cargo, I noticed patterns in their movements, the subtle differences in coloration based on the waters they came from. Captain Merida of The Seafoam Dancer noticed my intuition about where the best catches might be found and often asked for my input, though I could never explain how I knew—I just felt it. When a storm was approaching, I could sense it hours before the clouds appeared on the horizon. The captain learned to trust my weather predictions, though they came more from feeling than from reading the signs most sailors used.

  Later, I apprenticed with Shipwright Torven, learning to repair vessels. Where the other apprentices approached their work methodically, I found myself responding to each ship's unique characteristics. I could feel which wood wanted to bend one way while resisting another, how certain vessels seemed almost alive under my hands. Torven would shake his head and mutter that I was "feeling wood grain like it was a living creature," but he couldn't argue with my results. I kept detailed notes on each repair in a small leather-bound book, creating my own reference guide that I still use today.

  A year ago, my life changed when I met Joridir underwater. I was exploring a reef looking for a particular blue coral I'd seen months before—one that seemed to pulse with an inner light during the full moon. Instead, I found him struggling to free a sea turtle caught in an abandoned net. The poor creature was thrashing in panic, making it impossible for him to cut through the ropes.

  Without thinking, I cast Speak with Animals—one of the few druid spells I'd taught myself through careful observation and practice—and connected with the turtle's frightened mind. The sensation was like diving into even deeper water, surrounded by alien thoughts and instincts. Somehow, I managed to soothe the creature until it stilled enough for Joridir to free it.

  When we surfaced, he smiled at me with such genuine appreciation that I felt an immediate connection. Jori, as he asked me to call him, is a sea ranger who protects coastal waters from dangerous predators. Despite being an Aquatic Elf himself, he knows little of their traditions, having grown up in Candibaru separated from that culture. We were both outsiders in our own way—me, half-connected to a heritage I barely understood; him, separated from his cultural roots despite his full-blooded lineage.

  Over the past year, we've explored the coastal waters together, each discovery feeling more significant because we shared it. The first time we found a seahorse nursery hidden among the coral beds, Jori reached for my hand underwater. The touch sent ripples through me that had nothing to do with the current. We began meeting at my secret cove, where the limestone cliffs form a perfect natural amphitheater that catches the sunset. There, sitting on sun-warmed rocks with our feet in the tide pools, we talked about what our lives might be like together.

  Four days ago, our families met at the Salted Herring Inn. I'd spent the morning gathering sea lavender to place on the table—its subtle scent reminds me of early morning mist over calm waters. When Jori arrived with his mother, I saw Father's face drain of color.

  "Nimes?" The name fell from his lips like a stone.

  "Dawyn?" she responded, her voice barely audible.

  Her eyes moved slowly from Father to me, widening in recognition. "Is she...?"

  The revelation hit me like a rogue wave: Nimes—Jori's mother—is my birth mother. Jori is my half-brother.

  The pain of this truth runs deeper than any physical wound I've experienced. When I'm alone, I sometimes press my hands against my chest, as though I could somehow hold the pieces of my heart together. The sea, which has always been my solace, now feels like it too has betrayed me with its secrets. Even Meri seems to sense my distress, circling closer to shore when I sit at our cove, sometimes nudging my feet with her nose as if trying to comfort me.

  Word spreads quickly in coastal villages. Some people offer awkward condolences; others pretend not to notice when I pass. The worst are those whose eyes hold barely concealed amusement. I've taken to wearing my deep blue cloak with the hood drawn up when I must go to the market.

  Yesterday, I sat in Mother's study, absently sorting her component jars by color rather than the alphabetical system she prefers. The repetitive motion of handling the small bottles soothed me. Mother watched me for a while before speaking.

  "There's a spell called Detect Relations," she said quietly, setting an ancient leather-bound tome before me. "A spell that can reveal true blood ties between individuals."

  My fingers trembled as I traced the faded illustrations on the page. I spent the rest of the day visiting the temples of deities whose purposes might be served by the spell. Finally, at the temple of Chyros, goddess of wisdom, I learned that scrolls containing this spell might be sold on Nessa Kouya, one of the Confederated Islands of Matalis. A cleric or bard could cast it, revealing whether Jori and I truly share blood.

  For the first time, I'm considering leaving Andovarra's familiar shores. Tonight, I packed my most precious possessions: my journal, my small collection of specially chosen shells, the coral pendant Jori gave me, and a vial of water from Meri's Cove. I wrapped each item carefully in soft cloth before placing them in my waterproof satchel.

  If there's even the slightest chance that Nimes is not telling the truth about my parentage, I must discover it. Perhaps the truth lies across the water.

  I've told Meri about my plans to leave. It sounds strange to say I've told a dolphin my secrets, but she understands in her way. This morning, she brought me a perfect spiral shell that I've never seen before in these waters—perhaps from some distant shore. I've added it to my satchel, taking it as her blessing for my journey.

  The tide is turning. I can feel it.