Grellin of Bogbarrow
Grellin of Bogbarrow was not always a solitary thing. Long before the aspens learned their pale language and the valley filled in with silt, he had a lover who laughed like water over stones and never feared the dark. Then came a season that did not end, a flood that took names with it, and one night the river rose and carried her away into the black braid of the bog. Grellin followed until the ground turned to sucking mire and the world became all reed and reflection, but the water would not give her back. It only kept moving, pretending nothing had happened.
So he stayed. A millennium, then another, perched on the same log as it sank and was replaced, watching the surface for the shape of her face in every ripple. The pale eyes in his brow are not for hunting or threat, but for searching, each one tuned to a different kind of return: footsteps, voices, light, memory. He gathers what travelers drop because he believes one day the right small thing will drift past and the river will finally recognize its mistake. A ribbon she once wore. A bead the same shade as her gaze. A scrap of song.
If you find Grellin at the water’s edge, don’t treat him like a trickster. Speak softly, as you would near a grave, and offer him something you can spare with an honest hand. He will hold it as if it matters, because to him it does. Some swear the bog goes still after that, and for a breath the air smells like spring instead of rot. Others say they’ve heard, far downstream, a second set of footsteps in the shallows walking beside his. Whether it’s hope or truth almost doesn’t matter. Grellin keeps his vigil either way.
Grellin is composed of Navajo Churro fleece from a Diné shepherd in Arizona and the fleece may have some small bits veggie matter in it as the sheep live a happy life out in the brush and desert. Grellin’s feet were molded by my hands and casted in resin. He is completely bendable to your will.
She stands 22” tall and can free stand on his own.
Grellin of Bogbarrow was not always a solitary thing. Long before the aspens learned their pale language and the valley filled in with silt, he had a lover who laughed like water over stones and never feared the dark. Then came a season that did not end, a flood that took names with it, and one night the river rose and carried her away into the black braid of the bog. Grellin followed until the ground turned to sucking mire and the world became all reed and reflection, but the water would not give her back. It only kept moving, pretending nothing had happened.
So he stayed. A millennium, then another, perched on the same log as it sank and was replaced, watching the surface for the shape of her face in every ripple. The pale eyes in his brow are not for hunting or threat, but for searching, each one tuned to a different kind of return: footsteps, voices, light, memory. He gathers what travelers drop because he believes one day the right small thing will drift past and the river will finally recognize its mistake. A ribbon she once wore. A bead the same shade as her gaze. A scrap of song.
If you find Grellin at the water’s edge, don’t treat him like a trickster. Speak softly, as you would near a grave, and offer him something you can spare with an honest hand. He will hold it as if it matters, because to him it does. Some swear the bog goes still after that, and for a breath the air smells like spring instead of rot. Others say they’ve heard, far downstream, a second set of footsteps in the shallows walking beside his. Whether it’s hope or truth almost doesn’t matter. Grellin keeps his vigil either way.
Grellin is composed of Navajo Churro fleece from a Diné shepherd in Arizona and the fleece may have some small bits veggie matter in it as the sheep live a happy life out in the brush and desert. Grellin’s feet were molded by my hands and casted in resin. He is completely bendable to your will.
She stands 22” tall and can free stand on his own.