The Bog of the Unseen

Blood dripped frae his weak an' tired hawns. His sword hit the peaty bog he foun' himsel' in. It hud bin hoors since the sun set oon the land he called hame. Hamish tore at his sleeves an' desperately tried tae stoap the bleedin' pourin' frae the gash oon his erms an' side o' his torso.

His horse hud long retreated, lea'ing him tae fend for himsel' against the might o' the enemy. An enemy yet unseen. Or unseen in the normal sense.

When he hud set oot that morning fir his battle fir survival, there hud bin a sense o' dread across the wilderness as he swigged frae his water sack an' trudged through the muck an' mire.

He wud no hav considered himsel' a superstitious man. Mare cautious.

Respectful o' differing beliefs.

Energies an' auras.

Something hud felt aff. Clouds hud ambushed the sun, keeping it captive behind their skyward prison wa's. After walking several miles alang the tarnished land, he came tae a brook an' as he knelt tae refill his water sack, an unseen force gripped his sword, unsheathed it, an' plunged it towards his neck.

It wis luck an' the will o' the gods he managed tae slide tae the side an' jump tae his feet. That didnae stoap the attacker frae swipin' the blade towards his ootstretched erms an' clipping the side o' his exposed torso.

Then nothing.

An alive nothing.

Though he hud long abandoned a higher power, he wis thankful tae mare than jist his wits an battle sense.

That he still hud his skean dhu in his kilt hose.