Blood, Sweat and Tears
Some say it is a great honor to be the keeper of the key. One of the keepers of one of the keys. One of three, to be exact.
They would be wrong.
This key is in this hand because of a mistake.
Gramps was out of his mind with fever when he reached for Drūgen's hand, pressed the talisman into his grandson's fist. Held out of unbounded love for the old man, and unreasonable grief.
There are customs, there are rituals.
None matter more than the faith of a single heart passing down a sacred trust. If only he believed. His faith holding onto the memory of love long gone.
He'll say the words for him.
He'll walk the rites for him.
He'll loose the tears for him.
For the sake of an old man's love.
There is no great magic here, no mystical confluence, no etheric union of the three required to secure blessings for their villages. There was an old man who loved his grandson, there is a man who loved his Gramps. That is the only magic here.
For the sake of an old man's love.
This is the story of Drūgen.
This is the legacy of blood, sweat and tears.
May the ancestors look kindly upon his fate.