The Mists of Doom

Oh - I am Cormac Mac Art! I was Cuchulain. I am Cormac. I am in the woods, not dying though I have died afore in lives other than this one... the woods... campfire... but that is Sualtim Fodia staring at me from the fire!

Thin he was as ever, gaunt of face so that his skin was as aged white parchment drawn over the bone. On him the white robe of ceremony that was the color of his hair. The quick, bird-bright eyes stared blue at Cormac ad fro the flames. Sualtim spoke.

"Treachery, son of Art! Get ye to the house of your father you who are boy no longer, for it's dark treachery stalks the rath this night!"

That was all. The image flickered with the flicker of the fire, and grew less and less substantial. And then Sualtim was gone.