He was a greedy poet who took full advantage of the above-the-law priveliges of his hereditary rank. He wandered from one rath to another, like a highborn outlaw, taking whatever was his due and more, in return for the blessing of his words. Greedy though he was, he had a true gift even if its richness was tarnished by a constant demand to be fed. If the object of his insatiable desires was not given him, he would threaten to launch one of his famously scorching satires, and instantly his every wish was granted.

Now it was near Beltane. The weather turned sweet. Since Samhain, the poet had drained the local duns of the best food and drink and much of their riches, including the most beautiful women, the best horses and the finest clothing and brooches. The fresh breezes beckoned him to fresh pleasures awaiting in the southern lands.

Somewhere along the way, a mist rose up and the poet lost his way. When the mists cleared, he found himself in a field of fragrant plants that bore charmingly heart-shaped flowers. In the distance he could see what looked like the walls of a large castle. Idly he plucked a few of the flowers and stowed them away in his pouch for good luck. Then he rode off towards the castle. He could already smell the scent of roasting boar wafting on the breeze and it speeded him onward.

It was, of course, not a castle at all. It was a black forest of twisted trees and barren, burnt ground. He stumbled upon an unattended cauldron in which a blood-red brew weakly simmered. The steam smelled of something vaguely unpleasant, definitely not roasting boar. Two crows cawed out a warning. The poet drew his sword as he thought he heard the snuffling of a wild pig behind him.

A groan came from somewhere inside a shabby shed, so shabby that it was almost a part of the dismal surroundings. The poet thought only of himself and not what agonies were upon whoever made the groan. He only wanted to find how to get away from this place and back on the high road to the next rath. With that question on his lips, he entered the neglected hut.

There lay the alchemist, dying. He stared up at the poet through a glaze of pain. He tried to speak but his throat was parched. With one trembling finger he pointed to a pail of water by the door and pleaded silently for a drink.