The fields of Muirthemne. Blood covered grasses wavered on the unsteady
wind. Broken bodies bare to it's unforgiving breath. The final battle,
Cuchulainn's death. Those who survived, ran. Every man took flight into the
dense forests. The carrion birds picked over their brothers. Chained to the
large, grey stone stood the body of Cuhulainn. His eyes glazed over in
death. The paralyzing curse had taken his final breath. Wind tousled his
dark hair. The rough cloth of his tunic whipping in it's merciless grasp. A
raven perched on his shoulder. It's beady eyes watched the retreating forms
through the trees.
Victors joyous in their win. They wiped the blood and sweat from their
brows. Weapons were sheathed. They had won. The enemy was defeated. Through
whose power, they knew naught. Black ravens wheeled in the air above them.
Awaiting the signal to begin their feast. A fierce cry arose from the
largest of them. Digging it's claws deep into the frozen flesh of the
warrior, it pecked rapidly at his open throat. Consuming the flesh piece by
piece. It's black feathers speckled with the thickening blood. The bird's
sharp beak dripped with the deep red liquid. En masse, they descended upon
the grisly field.
Wicked talons tore through the cloth covering the bodies. Carving long
furrows into the cold, unfeeling flesh. A shadow darkened their feast.
Their seeming leader had taken to the sky. Golden beams of sunlight
cascaded across the raven's gleaming feathers. Soaring above the tree-tops
the raven watched the retreating warriors. Shadows lengthened on the cold
ground. The bird's harsh voice called out again. The small, fur clad forms
halted at the sound. Without a second thought, they sprinted blindly ahead.
Hoping to get away from their persuer. As futile as it was.
The evening sun drenched the forests in a night-like shadow. Lighting on a
high branch, the raven watched a life unravel. It's blood soaked feathers
drying in the chill air. A well trained eye focused on two beings below. A
warrior and a young maiden.
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