Dark clouds rolled across the sky like black waves across a rolling ocean, and rain hammered down against the murky pools and wet marshland that made up the Dunbog. The hour was late though no moons or stars could be seen behind the storm that swirled overhead. The only sight that the raiding party could rely on was their keen eyes and the experience of the scouts that led them forward. Thunder roared in the distance, though the storm was not yet upon them.
The cold water reached well past their waists as the small party moved waded forward, silently following one another as they looked to the faint orange glow of the sheltered fires ahead. The dark warpaint of the warrior, Pren, was fading from the rain and the water, streaking down his body in light marks however the thick mud that turned his skin to shadow was a perfect substitute, to him and the rest of the men.
This was no raiding party for the war to come, this was revenge. The man who led the party was the chief of the Dragons, the man known as Tân Brenin. His greying red hair was plastered to his face, a mess of burn marks. His brow was heavy with anger, his fingers gripped tight about his spear and the wyrm-scaled cloak that hung over his shoulders made him almost impossible to see.
The men they were hunting had insulted the Brenin deeply. They had come in the night to his court, and stole some of his prized animals, including the sow which he stole in turn from the Boars as a trophy. An insult like this would not do, so they crossed the distance. Tân Brenin had chosen his raiding party, and the warrior Pren was always keen to offer his axe.
The warband paused, the water to their chests. The fur and hide they had were soon soaked and heavy, and each step became more of a struggle though the thirst for revenge forced them on. Though an alarm was raised in the group, though cut short as a ripple ran through the water. One of the scouts, Gwilym, was no longer above the water, instead his bow now floated on the water as he thrashed. It was then when fear passed through the party, and panic and haste set them into motion. Afanc, with their powerful jaws and thick skin, soon dragged the men to their death. Spears were thrust into the water as men made their escape, though it was not enough to save them all. Near to half of the party were now floating in the water, torn apart as afanc took their fill, the wailing screeches of the beasts in the night enough to make the men run, including the warrior, leading them forth with his Brenin.
The men were now breathless shadows, the mud of the Bog shading them as they circled in on the fires. Slow deaths were given to the criminals, as the warriors axe sang for blood. The screams of the men were drowned out by the thunderous storm that roared over head, and all that was left the next morning when the clouds had parted, and the crows feasted well until the afanc came to finish the work.
Though now that was near to a year passed, and it was not the first time which Pren had thought back to his old friend, Tân Brenin, and how he fell at the battle of the Hornburg. Though now a feeling of dread lay on his stomach, knowing the paths he would have to take once again through the Dunbog, though this time with someone much more precious to him. His dear witch.
