[center][color=lightgreen][h1]C I N N E A D[/h1][/color][/center]
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[color=silver][i]It was quiet in the forest[/i], an unusual occurrence. At least, that is what his long hunting experience told Cinnead, for he could not clearly remember a time when this forest was not devoid of sound. He knew that this was not right, that something was clearly wrong, but the full realization and its implications danced away from him every time he reached out to grasp them. In the deepest, darkest depths of his subconsciousness he realized that he was no longer amongst the living, but like a name you could not quite recall this fact eluded his conscious self. Memories of times before seemed to float away, mirages of vivid images that seemed simply too good to be true. For the forest Cinnead found himself in was a dark place where only moonlight guided him; an eternal night that no sun ever rose to chase away.

But now was not the time to concern himself with such things. He was on the hunt. A hunt, for a boar of such size and splendour that Goethia would surely curse his name for robbing her of such a fine creature. No matter. This would not be the first time, after all. Cinnead allowed himself a small grin, before he picked up his spear and rose from the brush which he had been hiding in. With careful, measured steps he moved across the forest floor. He [i]knew[/i], in a way he could hardly articulate, that the boar was nearby. The knowledge was of such a tantalizing nature to him that he had to forcibly suppress his desire to run ahead with reckless abandon; though in a moment of surprising insight he suspected that the boar would not hear him coming. Carefully, Cinnead parted the foliage ahead of him to reveal an open clearing. The moon shone dimly above, casting what little light it could upon the boar that was but ten paces away. If Cinnead had been breathing, it would have caught in his throat.

It was a truly enormous beast. He doubted that if two men stood atop each other's shoulders they would reach the boar's full height. Its smooth, brown pelt seemed to shimmer ethereally, and its gigantic tusks were of the most perfect white. It seemed, somehow, to exude a confidence with its every movement; as if the boar knew it was king of this forest and that no being could ever challenge it. Cinnead steadied himself, shaking his head futily to clear it of the awe he felt. He raised his spear, measuring the distance for the throw, sighting the angle required for an instant kill. And then, leaning backwards, he took a hop forward and [i]threw[/i] with all his might, watching the spear as it flew true towards the boar, shouting in triumph as it struck home and the boar squealed once in surprise and then was quiet, raising his fists towards the sky as the great beast fell onto its side and lay still-

Except he didn't. None of that happened. The boar, his spear, the forest, the moon - all of it was gone, replaced by an utter and absolute darkness that threatened to consume him. He realized, belatedly, that he was floating in this great nothingness, except that he could not move, could not even open his mouth. And in a rush, as if a dam had been broken, a torrent of memory streamed into his consciousness. The hill, the tree, his last stand, the stench of blood and the feeling of horrible pain, Adolar furious and afraid in equal measure, him great and terrible but dying, dying, and his spear flashing in and out, leaving only death in its wake - all of it returned to him. He tried to cry out, but could not, for nothing existed in this place and nothing could ever exist, his very presence an anomaly, the breaking of what had been an eternal law. And then...and then there was a voice, except it seemed to come from inside his head, and not out.

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[b]I have not forgotten you, Spear of the West... 
The time has come... 
The need is great... 
You shall return...[/b]
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His vision suddenly warped, as if he was traveling a great distance at an equally great speed. And then, inexplicably, he was on his back. His chest heaved, gasping for air. He sat up, coughing violently, and looked around in wonder. Cinnead knew this place. It was where he had died, atop a hill graced by a solitary tree. Instinctively he reached out to his right and grasped a spear, though it was not [i]his[/i] spear, it was not [i]Brionac[/i]. Cinnead did not mind, however, for he [i]knew[/i], in a way he could hardly articulate, that the boar was near. And he was on a hunt.
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