I'll not resist, though pain is strong -
The ending notes of one last song.

"Listen to me Mozenrath." Iaine said as she helped a grudgingly accepting Mozenrath back to Tristan's hut. "No matter what happens, don't try to leave unless your summoned. " she gave no parting words but disappeared before he could tell her how he despised following orders.

Mozenrath rose to look outside of the animal skin blocking the doorway and jumped back just in time to avoid two long lances crossing in front of him. He landed on his backside and saw two strong armed, burly men standing guard at the doorway, glaring at him through blue paint tattoos and fierce eyes. He didn't give them the satisfaction of knowing they'd startled him but sniffed as though he'd smelt something particularly nasty.

Despite how uncaring he was attempting to be, this whole place had him on edge. The way he was being constantly watched, how everyone was being so 'nice' to him. Something was going on under the surface of these serene faces and it made him even more desperate to find out why he was here. Mozenrath searched the contents of the hut, not really giving a crap that it wasn't his hut and found a satchel of dried meat. He sat in a corner and gnawed at it absently, trying to figure this situation out.

Number one: he was not from this village, besides it being made bluntly obvious, his entire body gave away the fact that he wasn't a local. He was lean and wiry, where as most of the men here had some muscle built up on them just from day to day labor. He was exceedingly pale while most of the folk in these parts were a normal, healthy flesh shade. So if he wasn't from around here, how did he get so far from anyone who looked like him?

Number two: His hand? How on earth did such a wretched, nasty thing come to be on him? He uncovered his tunic to get a full look at the bones. They were clean, bleached by years of exposure, so it was not from his recent accident. As he looked closely there were nicks and chips in the skeletal structure, showing that his hand had been exposed when he fell. That meant it must have been covered at some point. But by what? And, now that he thought about it, why did he feel especially at unease when one of those druids came around. It was as if a part of their being called out to him, questioning, curious as to his nature.

The smell of smoke drifted in, and he could catch the hint of roasted meat on the pit. Mozenrath rolled his eyes. It had to be that damn holiday Baleen or whatever they called it. He shifted his cloak up around his shoulders and tried to get comfortable. He sure as hell wasn't going to stick around to discover what everyone was so apprehensive about. Especially not under armed guard who wanted him to stay where he could be easily found. Mozenrath began checking the inside of the hut, looking for any week spots.

He found one soon enough, right where the stove was located. Under the stove was a place where soot and ash could bee removed from the outside so as not to spill and ruin items indoors. It was a narrow hole, but light was clearly visible on the other side. Carefully, Mozenrath removed the tin pan placed underneath, making sure no sound called the guards to check on him. He lay it carefully next to the stove and looked around for something to take with him. He didn't know where he was or where he was going. Best to be prepared.

After scrounging around the tables he found a good piece of flint and a crude but solid bone handled knife. He pocketed the rest of the dried meat and searched out a water skin. A few more items packed away, (mostly things that looked medicinal like that salve Tristan had rubbed on him) and he felt secure enough to make his escape. He pushed it all inside a woolen satchel and squeezed it out through the small opening, checking to see if anyone was out there.

It took a great deal of grunting and quiet digging, but Mozenrath just made it through the hole as a shadow began to turn the corner of the chief druids domicile. Mozenrath bit his lip, plastering himself against the edge as a face appeared, then suddenly stopped as his/her name was called. He/she spun around with a happy look on his/her face and ran off to see someone. Mozenrath let out a breath and looked around. Apparently all the village was gathered in the center of the tribe. No one would bother with him for a good while. But he wasn't going to abuse how far luck was getting him tonight. He took off at a brisk pace, heading for the woods.

A full moon hung heavy over the world tonight, making everything in his path visible. He tried to avoid making too much noise, though even as the light of the village dimmed he could still hear the rancorous noises of drumming, dancing, flutes and drinking. Mozenrath smiled to himself. Even with his injuries he could be far away by mornings light, his trail gone. Feeling self satisfied, he began to slow down, allowing himself to get his bearings.

Another noise caught his attention and he froze, wary. It was a strange sound, short, frequent and feminine. He strained to hear and realized that a male voice accompanied it, longer and more grunting. It took Mozenrath a second to realize that he was standing less than six feet from a couple who had decided that Beltane was for lovers and wandered into the forest for a little privacy. Blushing more than he cared to in one day, he slowly backed away from the sight, hoping not to run into anyone else enjoying the same party activates.

He traveled for what seemed like hours until the moon rose in perfect position above him. A wind wound cleverly through the trees, carrying voices to him as he pulled his cloak tighter. He paused for a moment, wondering if he'd stumbled upon another night time tryst. But no, these voices were different, melodious and reverent. A strange pull started to make him move and for a second he felt dizzy.

Mozenrath gripped a tree to steady himself and shook his head. What was the music? Soft and light hearted, he could hear those voices chanting in time, preparing, calling to something he couldn't fathom. Entranced, more from curiosity than the spell of it, Mozenrath began to move forward, seeking the source. Light, bright blue light swam in from of him and he crept closer, feeling as if he passed through something as the trees gave way to a circle of people. He couldn't tell their sex one from the other, everyone wore a white robe with either yellow, red, blue or green markings on the elbows and necklines. And on top of that a hooded cloak of deep brown that let the shadow from the firelight play across their faces. Even those seemed sexless, but joined together as they rose in chorus with beautiful sounds, dancing with one another carelessly.

He could just barely pick out Iaine's features from the rest of them, she too was their, that precocious smile on her full lips as she danced with a taller, slightly older man. A few of the people sat off on a log, beating the drums as they danced around and around the bonfire. Mozenrath strained to make out the words.

Burn burn the bon fire burn

Spirits of the evening rise

Burn burn the bon fire burn

Spirits of the darkening sky

May

The crops grow high

And women swell

With bellies full of child

The sow will root

The seed will grow

As high as the evening sky

Burn burn the bon fire burn

Spirits of the evening rise

Burn burn the bon fire burn

Spirits of the darkening sky

The song continued until the last of the singers fell down in laughter amongst the others of their kind. One of them stood, and by the long beard Mozenrath had no doubt who. Tristan pulled back his hood to reveal his face, distinguished and serene in it's old age. The others followed suit, and finally Mozenrath could distinguish who was who. Indeed, everyone he had seen with a white band on their body was here now, and it hit Mozenrath like a bolt from the blue.

This was a druid ceremony.

Something told him to run, now before he was caught. Another part longed to linger and watch as the ritual continued and Tristan began to speak. Guess which part won.

He could barely make out the words, but the intention was clear. They were offering something to the deities of the planting season, thanking them for a good harvest the last year, and asking for a generous blessing on the fields for this season. As they began to prepare the alter, Mozenrath felt something creep along the back of his neck, making his hair stand on end. As he turned, something out of the corner of his eye moved and he jerked to find it again. The fireflies in the trees blinked back at in instantly rhythmic patterns, adding to the sensation that he was being watched.

When he turned back to the center, a man was being lead gently into the grove. He was young, perhaps in his mid twenties and strikingly good looking. He was without anything but a red ribbon in his braid and he knelt before Tristan and opened his arms wide. The chief druid was saying something in a suddenly serious voice. The young man was locked into position, forcing himself to face straight up into those stern and almost otherworldly eyes. He spoke the words 'I accept' with a pride and determination Mozenrath had never heard before, and suddenly ever druid there bowed reverently to him.

Two women came forward, baring a cloak of white deer hide, trimmed with beautiful golden threat and fastened with a magnificent brooch. Essus, the young druid who had lent Mozenrath his cloak uncovered a cloth on the alter, and raised the brilliantly decorated antlers from Tristan's home aloft. He took them to each man and woman in turn, letting him or her lay their hands upon the ivory horns or kiss them softly. When he came back around to the young man, he asked him something again. Perhaps his nerve was failing, for this time he only nodded in acceptance.

The antlers were placed on his head and he rose, truly a magnificent figure, like a deer sprung to human form. Iaine came forward, baring a silver chalice with a strange liquid inside. She tipped it to his lips and he took several big gulps, draining the glass dry. Iaine smiled and his and reached forward to kiss his cheek. He smiled at her in a strange way, and walked with his head held high to the alter stone.

His legs seemed to falter and two of the larger druids helped him lift himself onto the stone, laying down amongst the flowers and wreaths and other beautiful decorations. Ossian went to the head of the man and lifted his neck, exposing his throat. He raised his arms up high and began to call out in a triumphant and heralding voice what was to happen.

And Mozenrath saw the blade in his hand.

What he did next would change his life forever.