The screams tore through Fergus's sleep, a cacophony of terror and agony. He dreamt of a crimson sky, choked with smoke rising from his father's rath, the flames licking at the timber like hungry tongues. Shadowy figures, their faces obscured by darkness, moved with unnatural speed, their weapons glinting cruelly in the firelight as they butchered his kin. He saw his father, his face pale and drawn, his eyes wide with fear, before a blade, cold and sharp as winter's kiss, descended upon his neck.
Fergus awoke with a gasp, drenched in cold sweat. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the sudden silence. Relief washed over him in a tidal wave, the icy grip of fear slowly releasing its hold as the nightmare receded. It was only a dream. Only a dream.
He needed to clear his head. He pulled on his clothes, the rough linen a stark contrast to the lingering chill of the dream and hurried to the river that flowed close to his small hut on the edge of the forest. The icy water shocked him awake, its coldness seeping into his bones and washing away the last vestiges of the nightmarish vision.
As he dressed on the riverbank, a movement in the shadows of the trees caught his eye. An old woman, cloaked in deep grey, watched him from the forest's edge. Her face was hidden by a cowl, but Fergus felt the weight of her gaze, a sense of ancient wisdom and unsettling mystery. He ignored her, his mind still grappling with the echoes of his dream, and turned towards his father's rath, the path leading him toward the unknown.
The journey led him deeper into the woods than usual. He'd chosen a less-travelled path, hoping to avoid the usual crowds. It wasn't long before he stumbled upon signs of recent habitation – a crudely built lean-to, partially concealed by overhanging branches. Curiosity piqued, he cautiously approached. Inside, he found a small cache of supplies: dried meats, smoked fish, and bags of grain. Beside them lay several sets of finely crafted hunting spears. Each item bore a distinctive mark: a stylized boar's head, the crest of the Chieftain of Leinster.
Fergus examined the mark, a faint smile touching his lips. The Chieftain of Leinster was a friend of his father, a frequent hunting companion. It wasn't unusual to find their supplies in these woods. His father often left caches for unexpected guests and hunting parties. The discovery eased his earlier anxiety, reminding him of the bonds of loyalty and friendship that extended beyond the borders of his own clan. He replenished his own supplies with a few choice items from the cache, leaving the rest undisturbed, and continued his journey to his father's rath, the familiar boar's head crest a reassuring sight in the heart of the forest.