The High King sat in council. The long days talk and deliberations had born little fruit. The King had sent message to call all the Chieftains and Champions to speak on the changes brought forth upon the isle of Eireann. 

All had come and all had been heard, except for one whose absence did not go unnoticed. 

The Dagda had not arrived, and the King grew steadily more irate.

The space was warm and comfortable, it's earthy scents surrounding her as she readied the game pieces. The darkness of her home was alleviated by a large warm fire crackling joyfully on the hearth and candles circuiting the main chamber.  Company was coming.
As the last piece was placed on the board she took a moment to admire her work. 

They had been on the march for days. No rest was afforded them and no sleep as the pursuers relentlessly attacked time and again.

As the sun began to set, the Warriors came to a staggering halt. Each one at the extent of their endurance. They stood in the open plains of the middle lands, flat and broad with no hillock or rock, to take a defense against. 

The Chieftain stood aside from his host. Deep in thought. 

The throaty rumble of the engine came to a stop as the hearse rolled slowly to its position.
Silence returned to the garden, disturbed only by the wind in the few trees and the soft shuffle step of the mourners.
The box was slowly taken from the vehicle, heavy with a saddening emptiness, born aloft by the kin of the deceased within.
The procession moved off behind the symbol of their sacrificed saviour, lead by a Godsman reciting   words of their ritual of internment.