Your moist, warm breath upon my skin
Ignites a pulsing flame within

Mozenrath was forced to jump out of the way as a very young girl carrying a massive bundle of dyed cloths rushed by, her mother threatening death if she dropped them. It was barely sun up and already people had begun to gather their wares and produce. It took someone time to understand the method of this madness, but Mozenrath had grasped the general meaning of all this hustle and bustle and assorted commotion.

Word had arrived just after Beltane that a trader from off the island was coming. He had already visited two clans just east of them and seemed to be wording his way westward, bringing fine goods and wares. As soon as the messenger had arrived the whole village was on task, bringing out their richest goods for show. The entire village shown with the Celtic pride in their craft and efforts. Everyone was dressed in their best to greet the guests as was custom. Traders, like Druids, held passage even through bandit infested territories. It was an old custom, from back when the only people who really traveled from village to village were war parties, and merchants. Traders, unlike the latter of the two, not only brought their wares, but news from his travels. If a trader was accosted or offended, not only would he not return to the clan, he would spread news of their lacking hospitality. Thus a village could become isolated and ignored.

Traders had amnesty. And they were well entitled.

The Druids were not immune to the excitement. They too ran through the village…well not really ran. A Druid was meant to conduct themselves as though the comings and goings of this world were of little consequence. Mozenrath reminded himself and automatically slowed his pace. They walked, even if summoned by the High king of Ireland himself, they walked. It was just that today, they were walking a little faster. Mozenrath himself had little to trade, but he was assigned by Tristan to welcome the trader along with Chief Luchtain.

There were duties to be preformed, much of them he would have little to do with. A woman would offer hot water for bathing and a meal would be prepared to welcome the man from his long, hard road. He would be treated to a festival near worthy of nobility and at the end of the night, would retire to a hut with (no doubt) a willing young woman eager for first pick at his wares. Trading never began straight away, let him see the vibrancy of this culture, of these people. He'll long to take some away just for himself and the prices will skyrocket.

Mozenrath chuckled, pleased to be a part of it all.

A horn sounded over head as a man swung down from atop a tree. "The trader is coming!" he announced happily, carrying with him a huge instrument which he blew through again. "The trader is coming!"

The village positively swarmed together with excitement. The welcoming party consisted of three buxom young women, their assignments to offer the man a bath, fresh clothing, and (if he wished) a warm bed for the night. Chief Luchtain was there, dressed in his finest and decked with gold and bronze, showing the wealth of the clan, a small guard of the strongest men, showing the clans ferocity and prowess in battle, and, of course, Mozenrath, as representative of the Druids. He was there to show the strength of the clans ties with the Gods and Spirits.

As the man entered the village Mozenrath tried to get a better look at him. At first he was indiscernible from the rest of the Celts due to his clothing. He smiled vaguely, remembering his first reactions to the chilly air constant in this part of the world. No doubt he'd taken it upon himself to robe appropriately. But as he removed his hood it became obvious that this young man was no native. He had skin the color of shadowy sand and hair black as coal. His eyes were like warm hazelnuts as he shook hands with Chief Luchtain and was being introduced to the important members of the populace.

Mozenrath felt a queer clutching in his stomach, something like he was going to be sick. He swallowed hard and concentrated on proper breathing. He couldn't afford to loose his composure now. The young trader was being led to him and Mozenrath extended his right hand, still covered in the soft glove he'd been given shortly after awakening. "Hail and welcome traveler…"he felt a strong, firm grip slip into his own and in the same instant, knew something was wrong.

Two eyes, so familiar yet so distanced met, and the air between them became thick with strife.

'This one shows…flair.'

'Yeah right…your barely older than me.'

Another flesh of memory returning…

'Your out of your mind Mozenrath!'

'Ah no but soon I will be out of my body!'

And further on…

'Big word from someone behind bars in his own dungeon!'

'Maybe he needs a girlfriend…'

"You!"

"Mozenrath!" Spoken in shock and confusion.

"Aladdin…"the syllables strung out in blind hatred.

And in one split second, the battle had begun.