Killian lay in the back of an old hay wagon, his fingers laced together behind his head as he relaxed and looked up at the moon and the stars in never-ending wonder. This old, abandoned farm on the outskirts of some small, relatively insignificant mid-western town was no palace, the farm house infested with rodents and practically falling over, but it was better than many places he had slept. There was plenty of hay to soften his makeshift bed under the stars in the back of the old wagon, and when the weather was uncooperative, there was an old workshop in decent shape where he could take refuge from the elements.
It had been nearly half a year since seeing his mother, his real mother, The Morrigan, and he was beginning to wonder when he would see her again. She had never left him alone this long before, not that he was afraid for either her or himself, she was one of the Tuatha de Danaan and he was more than capable of looking after himself. Killian did have some questions for her though; it was becoming increasing difficult over the past month to make contact with any of the offspring of various other gods that he had met over the years, and he wanted to know why.
Killian lay there, content in that place where one sits on the edge of sleep, teetering back and forth from the waking world to the peace that only slumber brings. “Killian,” a familiar whisper sounded in his ear, “the world has become a much more dangerous place, and I have need of you”.
Sitting up, Killian looked to his left to see The Morrigan standing a few feet from the wagon.
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