No one knows where the Scatterkin are going, only that they never stop moving.
You will see them in the early light, bare-headed, with cloaks that catch the wind like wings. Their faces are smooth, almost human, but their expressions never quite match their steps. They drift with a strange urgency, as if pulled forward by something unseen. A bird may rest on their hand, a pouch may jangle at their hip, but their true cargo is always the same: seeds.
From the folds of their garments, from hidden slits in their sleeves, and from the tips of their fingers, seeds fall as they walk. Scattered without care or ceremony.
Seeds of all kinds. Life and death wrapped in husks.
Wildflowers, thistles, hemlock, barley, wolfsbane, mint, nettles, yew, lavender, grains, ivy, etc. All mixed together like fate itself. They do not choose what grows. They simply sow.
A Scatterkin will walk through the same town twice at least in a lifetime, once bringing blossoms, and the next bringing blight. They bear neither malice nor favor. What takes root is not their concern.
Theirs is the work of chance.
They do not speak to those who watch them, but they do not hide either. Farmers glimpse them at the edge of fields. Shepherds see their silhouettes against the hills. Some children run alongside them for a few steps, those children often grow up to become herbalists, healers, or poisoners. Something of the Scatterkin slips into their bones.
If you stand in their path, they will not pause. They will walk around you like water flowing around stone, and the seeds will fall at your feet. You may walk away with a pocket full of marigolds, or find nightshade sprouting at your doorstep weeks later.
No gift.
No curse.
Only the seed.
Villagers tell stories of fields turned golden after a Scatterkin’s passing, while others whisper of goats found dead after grazing where their footsteps lingered.
But the wisest know: it is the same hand.
The Scatterkin do not choose what saves or what kills.
They scatter both, because the world needs both.
There is no herb to summon or repel them, for they are not spirits of blessing or wrath, they are nature in its purest form.
Still, those who seek harmony with what grows often plant Chamomile after a Scatterkin is seen. Chamomile eases what comes, be it bloom or wither. Its roots calm the soil, and its presence is said to soften the sharpness of chance.
A field kissed by chamomile welcomes both flowers and weeds, but neither takes more than its share.
This is not protection. It is balance.
When you find seeds in your hair after walking a quiet road
When flowers bloom in your yard where you planted none
When a single poisonous sprout rises among your crops
Know that the Scatterkin have passed.
Do not curse them.
Do not thank them.
Plant your chamomile.
Tend what grows.
And trust the seed.
