"It is time," the words, barely audible, passed through the cracked lips of the weathered, graying man. He lay on his back upon a bedroll, carefully placed within his tent. The only source of light in the linen structure was that of the moon and the dozens of candles the circle of mourners held outside, gathered in front of tent. His daughter kneeled at his side, clutching his hand in hers and pressing it to her cheek. "No, father, don't, you are not dying, not yet." She spoke, hushed but forceful.
"I have lived along and fruitful life. I have healed many, failing none but myself, at this moment. The time has come for you to take my place. I will pass on to you the spell that every Druid leader before you has processed." His breathing was labored now, and his eyes began to glass over. Tears were flowing freely down the girl's cheeks and he wanted nothing more but to wipe them away like he had so many times before, but he had not the strength to do so. Too distraught to protest, she acquiesced, placing a kiss in the palm of her father's hand. Using the last ounces of his strength, the dying man raised his hand upward and uttered weakly, the sacred incantation. "Só leigheas na créachtaí agus na sláinte ar ais!" At that moment, his breathe hitched and an illuminated orb appeared and travelled from him to the pale hands of this daughter. Overcome by the appearance of light beaming from her fingertips, she hadn't noticed that her father's body had gone limp, his mouth hanging slightly open.
"Father?" she asked sadly, "Father, wake up." Her pleas went unanswered. "No!" she howled, "No! No No!" The painful sobs carried in the wind, filling the cool night with sadness. Her wails confirmed the mourners' worst fears, Aglain, leader of the Druids, was dead. And his Daughter Breaga Spelloyal, was now in charge.