"Even in death, each creature plays its part in maintaining the Great Balance. But now an imbalance grows, a force that seeks to hold sway over nature...we seek mainly to protect and educate, to preserve the Great Balance, but there are times when we must rise up against danger and eradicate it.”

— The archdruid Safhran.

The sun rises in the east, bathing the land below in a soft golden hue. Morning dew, a reminder of  the rains of the previous evening, dripped from great oaken leaves and blades of grass. Robins, blue jays, finches, flycatchers and kingbirds all sang their morning chorus as if in celebration at surviving the death that waited for them each night.

Small rabbits and mice emerged from their burrows. Deer anxiously peeked out from behind trees, wild pigs grunted as the foraged for mushrooms and fermenting berries, and small insects hummed and buzzed about. This would seem a normal morning in the Forest of sióga,

Were it not for the high pitched cries coming from the hills in the east. Here the trees grew in mysterious ways. Their trunks grew broad and hollow, and their branches stretched out to shield the ground below from sun and rain. These branches, each thick as a man’s arm, twisted and interlocked with one another Within the confines of the hollow trunks burned small fires. Meats, mushrooms and roots roasted over the small blazes. The fires were tended to by wild looking humans. They wore little clothing, and what they did wear were animal pelts stitched together by the fibers of old trees and riparian plants. Their exposed flesh was covered in tattoos. Archaic symbols etched in blue, black, and green snaked around their entire bodies. Their hair was long and braided, and had lighter brown or blonde hues to them. They were tall, long faced, and of great stature. Despite this, even the men amongst them were altogether lean, with arms that doubtless carried a deceptive amount of strength in them. The most captivating aspect of these wild folk were the eyes. Each of them a bright green, like a field after a springtime shower. It seemed to reflect the color of the very forests around them. These eyes watched as groups of children ran and giggled, fishermen ventured out to the river in the valley to the east, and women foraged for wild berries and crafted tools or weapons from bone, wood and stone.

All of them carried weapons. Knives made of sharpened bone, spears made of crudely worked stone and wood and even bows made from plant fibers with stone arrows. The hidden village, filled with the sound of preparing for the day of survival ahead of them. But many more still were centered around one of the great hallowed trees. The crying was coming from there and everyone wanted to gaze at the source of new noise.

On the other side of the village, a group of men and women, twelve strong and armed with spear and knife, marched into the hidden village. The knotted branches of the strange trees parting before them, allowing them entry. Only to twist together once more as the last of them entered into the strange place. The leader of the hunting party was a man of a good fourty or so years. He hefted the body of a small wild pig over his shoulder. The weariness from his face faded to a look of surprise and concern as he heard the high pitched crying. Dropping the dead animal from his back, he raced to the other side of the village! Forcing his way through the small crowd until he was at the front. The man smiled to see the sight of a woman, just two dozen moons younger than himself, laying on a bed of furs and cradling a newborn in her arms. The woman looked up at the man and gave a smile that spoke of exhaustion, relief and joy. The man knelt down to her side and placed his forehead to hers for a brief moment before turning to look at his child.

It was a boy. He was healthy, and strong, based on the sheer volume of his cries and movement of his tiny limbs. His eyes blazed with that bright green of his parents. The father went to pick up his son when a great howl came from the distance far beyond the village. It was unlike that of any wolf or dog, for it’s tone was deeper and carried with it barely contained primal feeling. The birds stopped singing, the rabbits crouched low, the people froze in place and even the insects ceased their hums. The forest had gone still as death. The child still attempted to cry out, so the mother had to cover its tiny mouth with a pale gentle hand. All the green eyes of the village looked out at their shell of knotted branches, a look of worry and suspense on every face.

They stayed that way for a few, painfully long moments. It wasn’t until the buzz of insects and the soft songs of the wren and the thrush returned that they resumed their work and play. The hunter’s tattooed shoulders fell, as if a great weight had been lifted off of them. And he returned his attention to his son, who had been freed of his mother’s muting hand and was still crying out.

Gently the hunter took the boy and placed his forehead to the baby’s.
“Cernunnos and the Weave has blessed us with a son! Praise him. And praise you, my darling Gwyn, for delivering him.” The hunter exclaimed gratefully.
The woman nodded, still smiling weakly. “Dearest Aodhan….what shall we name him?”
The hunter looked at the babe in his arms, examining him. “Hahah! Hear how he cries? See how he moves his little arms?! He is a fighter, I feel it! Perhaps..Blaine. Like my father, the great warrior.”

“The druid says that she felt the Weave stir at his birth mere moments ago.” Gwyn stated with labored words. “Perhaps something more fitting for their readings?”
Aodhan the hunter felt his face twist of disappointment. “Fiádh. An old name. Synonymous with the Wild.”
“A good one.” The woman nodded in agreement. “Welcome, little Fiádh.”