Free A Path of Oak and Ash by M.P. Reeves

strangely.
    “Interesting selection of attire.”
    “Yeah it was the best I could find.”
    “I had forgotten that jacket had been left in the wardrobe.”
    “A favorite?”
    “No, it was your fathers.  He wore it to his attunement.  A gift from our father before us. Dressed in his clothes...you truly do look like him.  Almost as though I was staring at a younger copy of Brannon.”  Erik smirked.  "A lanky copy."
    The mention of his father made him choke, his hand quickly bringing the water cup back to his mouth.  “Is my father...here?”
    “No.  Brannon Slaine walks the world of men, fighting those who seek to do us harm.  He has not returned to the wood in several years.”
    “Ah.”
    “You will meet him in time, I assure you.”  Erik smiled at his nephew.  “Then he will greet you as one of his own, in both flesh and life.”
    “So what is an attunement?”  He air quoted the word.
    “Coming of age for our kind.  It is when your way is chosen.”
    “Like a job?”
    “No.  There are many of those within the followings though.  Menders, crafters, warriors, scholars...this is different.  It is a time when you find our calling, the path in which you become one with the realm.”
    With a groan, Carrick ran his hands through his hair.   All this odd talk, customs was a bit overwhelming.  “I’m so lost right now.”
    “It is in fact rather simple.  There are four main clans, or ways, for druids.  I am Skyborn. Arcedes is my familiar, through her eyes I fly.  My duty, my passion is to the winged and the air. We are free spirited, our methods are our own, our attacks unseen strikes.  The Skyborn are majestic, many becoming crafters."
    “Your father, was not Skyborn.  Your father was called to the Order of the Fang.  Those that run with the woodland predators, for they themselves are predators.  Warriors, those driven by order, the good of the pack.  Protection of the whole.  Their designation is not a talon as you see on my chest,” Erik moved his cloak to the side, showing off a small brand on his left pectoral, “but the swipe of a claw."
    “Aside from those that take to the air and run upon the ground there are those that prefer the waves.  The Serpentine.”  Erik’s voice dropped into almost a growl, his long mahogany hair falling forward as he lowered his head slightly, “They are fickle, motives ever-changing with the tide yet able to invoke great beauty in their form.  Through the waters grace they mend, through the tides fury they fight.  The Serpentine are marked by the double puncture of a bite."
    Erik paused, pointing at him with his tattooed index finger. "Remember that."
    “Lastly, there are others who take no familiar, ones who attune to the nature itself.  The lovers of the vine, of the crop and earthen spoils.  They are scholars often and menders otherwise.  Their kind rarely raises arms due to their love of all.  We call them the whisperers; the voice on the wind, the truth in the trees.  They bare no mar upon their skin.”  Erik smiled as he stood, his heavy hands clearing away the painted pottery bowls from the table.  “Someday your way will open for you, until then I suggest a change in attire.”  With a short chortle, Erik turned his back to Carrick, setting the dirty dishes on the counter.
    “But I picked something out of the closet like you said?”
    “Dress clothes.  You are an outsider here already, you do not need to come off as a fancy lad as well.”
    “Hey dude...seriously."  Carrick grumbled, "All that stuff looked the same. How was I supposed to know this was some kind of ceremonial garb?”  Carrick unbuttoned the coat, eager to get the offending garment off.
    “I figured it would be self-evident.” 
    Well obviously not , Carrick thought to himself.  “Well what do you suggest instead?” He folded the coat and set it nicely on the table, it was after all, his fathers.
    “One moment.”  His uncle left the room for a