Tristan waited patiently until his guest was out of hearing range before continuing his conversation with fellow druid. "I know it's a risk. But Ossian the man doesn't even remember who he is."
"He remembers his name. And with a man like him that's more than enough for me." Ossian crossed his muscular arms. He was only a decade younger than Tristan, and the two often sought council in one another. He had only a few streaks of gray in his dark blond braids and cool green eyes set under a heavy brow. He was in reality a quite cheerful man, but that brow often made one think twice before setting about in a tangle with him.
"But beyond that what?" Tristan argued. "Are we to kill him for a crime he did not commit? Are we to execute a man for a past he does not remember." He frowned. "That sits ill on my stomach Ossian."
"But he did attempt to steal the artifact Tristan. He failed, but he attempted. I admire the bold, but the brash and power-mad… It's besides the point. He is a necromancer, one of those foul death callers from the desert. His magic is not like ours, he uses the force of those from the Otherworld, abuses it even. He shows no respect or reverence for the balance of nature." Ossian shivered from the thought of it.
Tristan sighed. He too had dealt with the magic of the Otherworld as part of his training. He had communicated with his ancestors and left offerings for them at Samhain. But there was a fine line between working with the dead, and abusing them. "Perhaps… perhaps he can be taught…"
"You speak of bringing him into the fold." Ossian rubbed his beard. "Damn. We don't even know if he could be taught our ways. That nasty thing he used to cover his hand, I was trying to figure it out as you asked me too." He took Tristan by the shoulders and looked deep into his eyes. "It's an evil piece of magic there old friend. There's something…dark…wicked trapped inside that hurts when you touch it too close."
"Are you saying that thing is…conscious?"
"Aware would be a better term. It is not active without someone wearing it I think. But when I tried to break it's spells, it defended itself." Ossian lifted up the sleeve of his tunic to show a burn mark in the shape of a left hand.
"Have Cigfa put ointment on that soon." He grimaced and bit his lower lip, chewing it as he often did when stressed.
"My wife has already taken care of it, I left it unwrapped to show you." He pulled his sleeve back down. "May I offer a piece of advise? It is nearly Beltane…and it has been five years…"
Tristan closed his mouth with a snap and Ossian was cut off. "I do not think it would be wise to offer this man as our emissary to the gods. We still have prisoners from the cattle raid earlier this year, and they do not fear the fires as a foreigner would." What Tristan was not saying struck a cord with Ossian, and he debated weather to ask our not. Tristan did not give him the opportunity. "Do you remember that dream I had two months ago?"
"Remind me." He sat down across the chief druid and handed him a mug of beer.
Tristan took a long sip and silenced himself, thinking back. "In my dream, I was in a field of wheat, and a great black boar stood across the field from me. He was huge, with great ivory tusks and eyes red as fire. As he began to run to me, I tried to move, but could not. Closer and closer he came, and as he drew near I could see the blood coating his mouth, ready to taste my insides. But I did not move, I was afraid of him, for he could easily overpower me. But I was no afraid. He came nearer, roaring in anger. And just as I though he would tear my gut from me, I held out my hand, and the black boar became white at my touch."
Ossian took a deep deep drink of beer and closed his eyes. "I hear what you are saying. But Tristan, keep in mind." He looked off to where Mozenrath had gone. "Black or white, a boar still sharpens his tusks."