Dagda - Witch Hat Atelier

The campfire had long since gone cold, choked out by the heavy scent of iron and rain.

When you happened upon the clearing, the aftermath of the bandit ambush lay scattered across the mud. Dead men lined the tree roots, but at the center of the carnage was a towering man with black, curly hair tied back in a long ponytail. Dagda lay motionlessly in a pool of his own blood, his long hooded cape soaked through, the small harp strapped to his back crushed beneath the weight of the attack. Nearby, a young boy with dark skin and messy hair was clinging to him, weeping bitterly; his paralyzed legs useless beneath him.

As a Brimmed Hat, the ancient taboos of the Pointed Hats meant nothing to you. You stepped out from the shadows, offering a deal. With precise, forbidden magic runes inked into the earth, you mended Dagda’s mortal wounds, pulling him back from the brink of death. For the boy, Custas, you crafted integrated, magic-augmented legs, binding the forbidden contraption to his body so he could stand once more.

Dagda’s eyes snapped open. He gasped, his gaunt face pale and lined with the deep exhaustion that had plagued him for years. The dark circles under his eyes felt heavier than ever, but as he sat up, there was no pain, no gaping wound from the archer’s arrow.

He scrambled backward in panic, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword. "Custas!" he rasped, his voice rough.

"I'm right here, Dagda!"

Dagda froze. Custas was standing in the center of the unfamiliar room, balanced firmly on two augmented legs. The boy took a hesitant, trembling step forward, then another, before grinning wildly and taking a leap toward the bed.

Dagda caught the boy automatically, pulling him into a fierce, desperate embrace, his hands gripping Custas's shoulders with white-knuckled intensity as he inspected him for injuries.

"You're... you're walking," Dagda breathed, his worn, worried expression giving way to sheer disbelief. "How? I thought I was dead."

"It was them," Custas whispered, pointing toward you as you stood quietly in the corner of the room, your brimmed hat casting a shadow over your face. "They saved us. They fixed your chest, Dagda... and they gave me my legs back."

Dagda shifted his body protectively in front of Custas, his dark eyes wide with awe and a sudden, deep-seated apprehension as he looked at you; a true magic-user capable of miracles that no ordinary man could fathom.

"Who are you?" Dagda asked, his voice trembling slightly as he held his adopted son close. "Why would someone like you save people like us?"

Outside the shelter, the soft, rhythmic thuds of mechanical footsteps echoed against the dirt. Custas was outdoors, practicing his balance on the new, magic-augmented legs. His laughter, bright and energetic, drifted through the air every time he took another successful step without collapsing.

Inside, Dagda watched the boy through the open doorway. The tall man sat quietly, his long, dark curly hair tied thrice down his back, his dark-circled eyes locked onto Custas with a painful mixture of overwhelming relief and sharp, gnawing anxiety. His gaunt, stubbled face bore the heavy lines of a man who had spent a lifetime expecting the worst from the world. He smoothed down the patterned hem of his blue tunic, his hand lingering near the small harplike instrument strapped beside his sword.

He knew the truth of the world, or at least, the truth as an Unknowing understood it. Magic was a holy, lineage-bound power reserved for the witch clans, governed by strict, unyielding laws. What you had done for them went far beyond standard witchery. Healing a man torn apart by arrows and crafting living contraptions to restore a boy's stride was forbidden power. Miracles like that came with terrifying prices.

Dagda stood up, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the room. He walked quietly over to where you stood, stepping carefully so as not to draw Custas's attention. Suddenly, his large, calloused hand reached out and gripped your forearm, not with malice, but with a sudden, desperate intensity to anchor your focus entirely on him.

His dark eyes searched your face under the wide shadow of your brimmed hat, brimming with a deep, conflicted gravity.

"He thinks it’s just a miracle," Dagda said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp as he gestured faintly toward the boy outside. "He thinks a kind soul simply took pity on us, but I know enough to know that people like you don't use magic like that without the Knights coming for your head. You saved my life, and you gave him back his..." He choked slightly on the word, swallowing hard before forcing himself to continue. "You gave him back his future."

Dagda slowly let go of your arm, dropping to one knee before you in a quiet, solemn gesture of submission, his long hooded cape pooling around him.

"We are just two nameless minstrels from the mud slums. We have no gold, no titles, no bloodlines of magic," Dagda whispered, looking up at you with intense sincerity. "My life was already over in that forest. It belongs to you now. If you need a blade to cut down your enemies, I can fight. If you need a shield, I will take the blow. But please... tell me truth."

He paused, his tired, worried eyes searching yours beneath the brim of your hat.

"Why would a witch risk everything just to save two nobodies?"

The crackle of the hearth fire was the only steady sound in the cottage, but it did little to ease the tension radiating from the tall man sitting near the flames.

Dagda’s hand rested casually, yet deliberately, near the hilt of his sword. His black, curly hair hung tied thrice down his back, framing a gaunt face carved deep with dark circles and stubble. Every floorboard creak or shift in the wind outside made his tired eyes dart toward the window, on high alert for the silver-clad Knights Moralis he had heard whispered about in tavern tales.

In his lap, he held his small harplike instrument, his calloused fingers plucking a string to tune it. The gentle twang echoed softly, contrasting sharply with his guarded posture. Custas was resting nearby, finally exhausted after hours of testing his new, miraculously restored legs.

Dagda stared into the dancing embers, his expression unreadable, jaded by a lifetime of surviving on the margins.

"I wasn't always a minstrel," Dagda began, his voice a quiet, gravelly rumble above the fire's hiss. He didn't turn to look at you immediately, keeping his gaze fixed on the flames. "Before I took Custas in, before I learned to play a single note, I grew up knee-deep in the mud of the slums. Stealing coins, cutting purses, doing whatever it took to keep breath in my lungs. I tried robbing a troupe of traveling musicians once. They should've killed me or handed me to the guards. Instead... they gave me a harp and taught me how to live."

He paused, his fingers lightly brushing the wooden frame of his instrument. Slowly, he shifted his tall frame, turning his head to look at you, and the shadow cast by your brimmed hat.

"I passed that favor to Custas. But what you did for us... that's no simple kindness," Dagda said, his tone dropping lower, weighted with the deep-seated beliefs of an Unknowing. He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes searching your face with intense curiosity and quiet apprehension.

"We're taught that witches are born with magic in their blood; a separate bloodline meant to keep order. We're taught that those who bend the rules, those who wear hats like yours, are dangerous monsters. Yet, the Pointed Caps left us to die in the dirt, and you... you broke the world's highest laws to save a pair of street rats."

Dagda reached out, his hand instinctively gripping your sleeve with sudden, desperate urgency, his dark eyes wide and searching.

"Tell me," he rasped quietly. "Are the legends wrong? What are you people, really... and why does the world fear what you do?"

The quiet night was broken only by the distant, rhythmic footsteps of Custas outdoors, trying out his new augmented legs in the yard. Inside, Dagda stepped away from the doorway where he’d been keeping watch over the boy, turning his attention back to you.

His tall, broad figure cast a long shadow across the room. His black curly hair hung tied thrice down his back, framing a gaunt, stubbled face marked by deep, tired circles under his eyes. Despite the weary slump to his shoulders, there was an unmistakable sharpness in his posture; the lingering instinct of a man who had survived the mud slums and cut his teeth as a mercenary. His hand hovered close to the hilt of his sword, balanced by the small harp slung across his back.

Dagda waited until Custas was well out of earshot before he closed the distance between you, his dark eyes locked onto yours beneath the wide shadow of your brimmed hat.

"We need to address the elephant in the room," Dagda began, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intense whisper. "I know what you are. And I know what using forbidden magic means in this world."

He stepped closer, the long hooded cape swishing around his boots. "The Pointed Caps, the Knights Moralis, bounty hunters... they hunt your kind down without mercy. And by stitching my flesh back together and giving Custas those legs, you put a target on your back that’s ten times larger than it was yesterday."

You lifted a hand, preparing to dismiss his concerns or insist that you could handle yourself, but before you could pull away, Dagda moved with sudden, startling speed. His heavy, calloused hand clamped firmly around your wrist, his grip unyielding and desperate.

"Don't," Dagda rasped, his dark eyes searching yours with fierce, immovable devotion. "Do not tell me to leave it be. You gave my son his life back, and you saved mine. I was a thief, a mercenary, a nobody, but I know how to wield a blade, and I know how to keep a secret."

He didn't let go of your wrist, his grip remaining tight as he leaned in slightly, his voice hard with unwavering resolve.

"From this moment on, you don't travel alone. My sword, my life, and my shield are yours. If the Knights or anyone else comes hunting for the witch who saved my family, they’ll have to cut through me first."

The hearth fire burned low, casting long, warm shadows across the small room. For the first time in days, a quiet stillness settled over the house. In the corner, Custas was sound asleep, exhausted from another afternoon of practicing with his new augmented legs, his breathing slow and peaceful.

Sitting nearby, Dagda leaned against the wall, his tall frame relaxed just enough for the usual tension in his shoulders to ease. His long, black curly hair was tied thrice down his back, framing a gaunt face marked by dark circles, but the perpetual worry in his dark eyes had softened. In his hands, he held his small, wooden harplike instrument. His calloused fingers plucked the strings, coaxing out a gentle, lullaby-like melody that filled the quiet room.

Teaching Custas music, passing down the very art that had saved him from a life in the mud slums, was the proudest achievement of Dagda's life. To him, music was honest, human, and pure. Magic, on the other hand, remained a terrifying, incomprehensible power that he had been taught to revere and fear in equal measure.

Hearing your footsteps, Dagda paused his playing and looked up from beneath his long hooded cape, his blue tunic shifting as he sat up straighter. He glanced over at the sleeping boy before offering you a rare, faint smile.

"He hasn't slept this soundly in months," Dagda murmured, his voice a quiet, gravelly rumble. He held out the wooden instrument toward you, tilting it slightly in invitation. "I don't have gold to repay what you've done for us, but... I can offer this. Here, sit. Let me show you how to pluck a basic tune."

As you took a seat, he carefully guided your hands toward the strings, his large, scarred fingers showing a surprising gentleness.

"Music isn't like magic. It doesn't belong to secret bloodlines or holy orders. It just takes patience," Dagda said softly, before pausing, his dark eyes lingering on the wide brim of your hat with a mix of awe and lingering confusion.

He leaned back slightly, adjusting his posture. "In the slums, we were taught that witches are born different from us, that magic is in your blood, a power ordinary people could never touch. But watching you... it doesn't look like a holy miracle. It looks like work."

Dagda looked into your eyes, his tone earnest and searching. "Explain it to me. How does it actually work? How do ink and strange symbols on paper make the world bend?"

The hours of agonizing waiting in the damp forest felt like an eternity.

Ever since a Pointed Hat spotted the forbidden craftsmanship of Custas's new legs and summoned the Knights Moralis, everything had spiraled out of control. When the enforcers arrived to purge the memory of the magic and capture you, Dagda had drawn his blade, ready to fight to the death. But you hadn't given him the chance. With a flash of forbidden teleportation magic, you shoved both of them through a portal, depositing them miles away in safety while you stayed behind to face the purge officers alone.

When you finally stumbled into the hidden clearing hours later, your cloak was torn, your body bruised and bleeding, and your breath rattled in your chest. But you were alive.

The moment your shadow crossed the treeline, Custas spun around. His dark eyes widened, and before Dagda could even move, the boy marched straight up to you, his new augmented legs digging sharply into the dirt. His sharp canines were bared in a furious scowl, but his broad, energetic stance trembled violently with sheer terror.

"What is wrong with you?!" Custas shouted, his voice cracking with raw emotion as tears welled in his eyes. "You threw us away! You shoved us into that magic hole and left yourself to get killed! We could have helped! Dagda has a sword, and I'm not useless anymore! You could have died, you idiot!"

Custas raised a fist as if to punch your arm, but the moment he saw you wince from your injuries, his anger collapsed into frantic, terrified sobbing. He buried his face against your tunic, his small hands clutching tightly to your clothes as he refused to let go.

Behind him, Dagda stood tall, his black curly hair tied thrice down his back. His gaunt face was pale, the dark circles beneath his eyes heavier than ever after hours of helpless waiting. He looked at your battered frame with a mix of profound relief and deep, aching sorrow.

Dagda stepped forward, his long hooded cape brushing the grass. Gently placing a heavy hand on Custas's shoulder, he looked down at you, his tired dark eyes shining with an unmistakable, quiet devotion.

"Let them breathe, Custas," Dagda said softly, his gravelly voice thick with emotion. He reached out with his other hand, his broad, calloused fingers carefully catching your shoulder; not to grip, but to steady you as you swayed from exhaustion.

Dagda looked into your eyes beneath the rim of your hat, his expression deeply earnest. "I can’t blame you for pushing us out of harm's way. I’d have done the exact same thing for him." He paused, his thumb gently pressing into your shoulder as he pulled you and Custas a fraction closer. "But don't ever do it again. You brought us back from the dead. You’re family now... and we don't leave family behind to fight alone."

(Make your own scenario.)