The Donnar were a mighty tribe, one of the mightest of Jaiep. They were talented hunters, masters of tracking, and the Ravens of the Donnar, the great shamans who saw the tribe's hunts become successful through masterful divination were the greatest and most celebrated of the tribe's members. Among the greatest was Pwyll, son of Lleu, son of Gwydion, and the only Raven greater still than him was Branwen, his daughter, and the woman who had helped save Jaiep and the other worlds of Tardore from an otherwise inevitable doom, even reclaiming the lost world of Cor and its people from their spectral half-life.
By all rights, Branwen ap Pwyll deserved a dignified entry. She alone of the heroes gathered, perhaps, could lay claim to having saved multiple worlds, not just her own. She alone could claim to have ridden Cliona, her faithful giant raven, upon the waves of Jaiep's oceans, the icy peaks of Tangur, the verdant rainforests of Ssistyl. She alone could claim to have saved an entire world, an entire
planet from the folly of the worlds around them.
By all rights, Branwen ap Pwyll did
not receive a dignified entry.
....
The shaman woke up, sprawled on the bed in a decidedly undignified manner, groaning. She wrenches herself to her feet, her head pounding, the strength seemingly sapped from her bones. She felt nothing but the clothes on her back, the memory of something held in her hands rapidly fading from her mind's eye like a dying candle's flickering light.
And she knew nothing.
"This.....this isn't home." "And yet I can't remember what home is."The bearded man speaks. She recognises the attire as foreign, not of her home, but the question was what
was home? The others too were foreign. She didn't recognise any one of them, not that she was sure she could given
she couldn't remember a damn thing. "Did you bring us here?"