"Well, Niamh?" At first glance the speaker seemed no different to the other women gathered in the clearing deep within the forest. Black leather trousers encased long legs, a matching sleeveless vest leaving tanned arms bare. A sword was carried down her spine, the hilt visible over one shoulder. Raven hair flowed in soft waves, framing a face whose features were perhaps too strong for true classical beauty, yet were nonetheless striking in appearance. It was the eyes that captured the attention, however, for if they were the window to the soul then this woman possessed a spirit no mortal body could contain. Onyx black, they shone with a dark fire, wild and untamed. The potential for violence was in every smooth movement of her body, yet there was also something other than the lust for battle, a heat of a different nature that clung to her like a rich perfume.

"The humans lie dead upon the battlefield, my Queen, their bodies will provide a feast for the wolves tonight." The elven woman's golden hazel eyes lifted, an almost fanatical fervency burning in their depths. "So should all enemies of the Tauremornan peoples meet their end, as mereth en draugrim."

"Death comes to all in time, Niamh. There are none that can evade that icy grasp. As I am there in the beginning, so shall I be at the end, and that end shall be one of my choosing." Nuuruhuine, Goddess of the Tauremorna, lifted her onyx gaze from her Raven and looked about the clearing deep within the forest. The Death Shadow, the Battle Raven, The Queen of Phantoms and the Mother of Life and Death; she was the Goddess of Cunning, Death, War, Revenge and Magic, Protectoress in Battle and Peace. "Yet there is more is there not? Éabha?"

"My lady." The auburn-haired elf upon whom the dark gaze had fallen stepped forward, "there was... a child." She gestured to one of her companions who moved up beside her, a bundle held securely in her arms, "we found her amongst the fallen." The uneasy expression in the depths of her forest green eyes seemed out of character for the seasoned warrior, yet it was one shared by all of those around her. As the blanket was tugged aside to reveal a pale-skinned infant with a shock of pure white hair, all of the Ravens seemed to flinch, regarding the child with an oddly superstitious dread. "The ghosts, my lady, they floated about her head." Éabha had seen much in her years that might have shocked the most hardened of men, yet the elven woman knew that the image of those translucent white forms rising from the corpses of the slain to circle the infant's tiny form would be one that would remain with her until the end of her days.

"As the month of Gort ends and that of Ngetal begins, the veil between this world and the next thins. Is not the festival of Geamhradh approaching? The cry of the Sluagh will be heard within the forest once more as the year dies, and the Shadowy One will come to the Tauremorna." Nuuruhuine held out her arms to take the infant, her fingertips brushing over one pallid cheek.

Rising slowly to her feet, Niamh regarded her Goddess questioningly. "The Shadowy One?"

A faint smile curved the Battle Goddess' lips, "Scathach, Niamh. Her name is Scathach."