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The highlands were different from what he remembered. They had lost some of their former splendor, as if the perennial rainfall had finally succeeded in washing out the once-vibrant colors of the native flora. Perhaps it was his memory playing tricks on him, recalling imagery which had never existed in reality, or perhaps the slow march of time had indeed erased the bright hues of green, purple, and blue of his youth. He did not know how long he had been absent from the world, and so he could not say for sure. As it was wont to do, however, his heart was separate from the reasonings of his mind. Half a dozen emotions vied for dominance inside him, ranging from soul-wrenching sadness to white-hot fury at Adolar for denying him a long life, renewed after so long a time deceased. But he had gotten his vengeance long ago and so he suppressed his anger and turned his thoughts towards the present.

The boar still danced ahead of him, every bit as ethereal as it had been in that mystical land of death. Cinnead followed it slowly, unwilling to expend energy with no clear respite ahead; how pathetic would it be for him to starve immediately after being reborn? The thought drew a dry chuckle from him, as he once again wondered why he was alive. Was he the only one to have been returned to life, or were there others as well? There was no way of him to find out yet. What he should be wondering about, he thought wryly to himself, was where this boar was leading him towards. Cinnead had long since left the hill behind, and he suspected that he was in the southernmost area of the highlands. After two straight days of travel his hunger was fearsome indeed, though he had quenched his thirst in a murky pond an hour's travel back. 

Suddenly the boar disappeared, and a high-pitched whistle rang out into the air. Men clothed in furs and wielding a wide assortment of weaponry appeared all around Cinnead. He was surrounded. Cinnead cursed himself for a fool; he had been so intent on the boar and his own musings that he had not given a thought towards his surroundings. He gripped his spear tightly and adopted his fighting stance. A slight grin appeared on his lips at the thought of a second last stand. Such thoughts were interrupted when a man on a rise to his left broke from the line of his fellows.

"Who are you and why are you trespassing on land belonging to the Alans?" The man said gruffly, eyeing Cinnead suspiciously.

"Poor manners to challenge a mere traveler without identifying yourself, friend." Cinnead called back. A gamble.

The man raised an eyebrow. "I was not aware I was a friend of yours." He paused, and conceded. "But you are right. My name is Galeran."

"Well met, Galeran. My name is Cinnead."

The man barked a laugh. "Your parents must have had high hopes for you, to have named you after the Spear himself."

Cinnead smiled humorlessly. How long had he been gone? "Perhaps so. Regardless, your hospitality would be much appreciated by this lonesome hunter. I have fared better, if you cannot tell by my lack of attire..." He gestured to his stark nakedness.

"I can tell!" The man responded, grinning. "Very well, you seem harmless enough." He called out a few commands, and slowly the bristling array of weaponry pointed at Cinnead was lowered. A boy, barely past his manhood ritual, appeared next to Cinnead and handed him a rough cloak of fur. Cinnead gratefully accepted it, swathing himself in it like a blanket. The boy also gave him some hard tack and a sip from a canteen of water, and then they were off over the hills again. Idly, Cinnead wondered what he had gotten himself into. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw the boar far ahead over the next rise. He smiled softly. Indeed, what had he gotten himself into?
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