Waking with a startle
Author: * Dobhar Niafer - 28 Posts
Date: Nov 3, 2003 - 14:29

I must have fallen asleep during the Samhain celebration, nose in my cup. My own snores waken me. I was dreaming of the great wurm that we fought in Pictland. With a jerk, I grope for my sword. Then I realize where I really am.

It is dawn. The bruidean is still quiet, most of the folks contentedly slumbering after the riotous festivities. I remember little, if any, which can only mean that I consumed more than my share of mead. With a groan, I rise, stretch, and curse my aching head.

Braving the sunrise, I shuffle outside and through the gates towards the river, instinctively seeking the refreshment of those cold, clear waters. The watchtower stands in silence as I pass by. I smile, thinking of the Vatling and how he proved his loyalty beyond any question. This may be an interesting winter with Amleth in our midst. And he seems to have taken a liking to the little healer...

The sound of women's laughter stops me in my tracks. It comes from the riverbank. Splashing and voices. Not our language but Cruithne. What is this?

Slowly I move closer and squat down, parting the reeds and rushes for a look. I spy a few of Gartan's younger warriors on the shore and in the water, along with a few women. That laughter rings out again and I recognize it as Verica's.

A sharp pang of jealousy shoots through me. When we took the hostages from Pictland, Verica was supposed to be mine. With an unexpected blaze of passion, I remember how we danced together, how her eyes reflected the bonfire's glow, and how she tossed back her wild hair when she laughed. Now she laughs again. I clench my jaw and reach for my sword.

Then I think of my elf-poet wife, lying so pale and still in the Rian's house. So pale and still while Verica is laughing and so full of life.

I sigh and let my hand rest on the sword's heft. A breeze comes up from the river, closing the curtain of reeds and rushes, hiding the Cruithne again. The laughter slowly fades while I sit with aching head and aching heart. For awhile I am unable to move under the weight of my own sadness. Then I slip away, unnoticed.


By the waterside
Author: * Verica Cruithni - 3 Posts
Date: Nov 5, 2003 - 16:00

I am up with the sun while most of the other folks were still sleeping off their Samhain celebration. So I decide to go out walking. We Cruithne are no longer confined to the bruidean now that Gartan and his men have again made truce with the NiaFer clan. Two of my kinswomen, Veda and Devana, follow me out into the morning after making sure their little ones are still soundly asleep in Skene's gentle care. What a relief to put on my cloak and walk freely outside again, wandering wherever I please.

I lead Veda and Devana to my favorite place, a ford where the river runs swift and shallow near an old watchtower. Sometimes salmon can be seen darting through the billowing waters. It is a good spot for bathing. After our Samhain revels, the three of us could use some washing!

When we get there, though, a few of Gartan's younger warriors are already in the water. They obviously had the same idea. One lad is sitting on the bank by a small pile of discarded clothing. The others are splashing about, pushing and taunting each other like boys at play.

We three watch for awhile from behind the trees, hardly able to keep from giggling aloud. Then we get up to some mischief. I creep silently forward with my friends right behind me. Our plan is to push the one lad into the water, then run off with the pile of clothing. But the young warrior is no fool. He must have heard us, and he is ready when I pounce. He easily catches me by the arms, chuckling gleefully. While we wrestle together, Deva and Vedana are so surprised that they forget to grab the clothes. Instead they stand there shrieking and twittering like two silly magpies. The other warriors rush out of the water to give chase - and from the slippery banks it is not long before all of us are engaged in a boisterous mock battle in the waist-deep chilly water!

When it is all over, I find myself half-naked and dripping wet but wrapped in the warm, dry cloak of my intended victim. Deva has somehow escaped but Vedana is captured, having surrendered most willingly to the youngest and most handsome of the warriors. Kindling is gathered for a fire. As I peer out from under the hood of my wrappings, something catches my eye through the bare trees - a flash of flame red hair and the glint of a fine sword.

"The war chief Dobhar!" one of the Cruithne men exclaims in a tone of quiet respect. Vedana glances over at me from within the circle of her warrior's arms and raises an eyebrow, watching closely for my reaction.

"He wishes to join us?" I laugh boldly, but inside I am suddenly very sad. The fire is lit and we dry ourselves enough to return to the rath by the time the sun is at its height. I walk alone, returning to the Rian's house and my place as handmaiden as if I had never been anywhere else.


Burning cold
Author: * Summer Isle CuChulainn - 21 Posts
Date: Nov 11, 2003 - 19:36

The last thing I remember is falling asleep on a bed of bracken near the banks of the river Boyne, not unusual for a poor storyteller like myself. I was on my way back to Inver Colpa from the summer's wanderings, entertaining princes at royal courts or squatting with the vagabonds by the roadside in turn, lingering whenever my feet got tired and my hunger got fierce. It was the night before Samhain but I was too weary to walk the rest of the way to the rath. So I laid my head on my pack, thinking I'd rest awhile so as to arrive fresh at the NiaFer's bruidean, ready for the festivities and a pleasant winter of the Rian's warm hospitalities.

Now I can hardly remember my name. A burning cold has come upon me, a pain so intense that it takes all of my strength to move just one finger. I feel frozen and scorched both at the same time. All I can do is lie here and watch the sun and moon chase each other across the sky. It took all of one day for me to wrap myself up in my woolen brat but now it is sodden with rain, and I am shivering in a muddy wallow. Who am I? All I know is the burning cold pain. It has swallowed up everything that I ever was.

And so I look at the sun for another day. Between spasms of trembling and the icy fire, I wonder vaguely what is to become of me. I am pain. I am fire. I am ice. Will I eventually melt into the ground and feel nothing more? It would be a blessing. Or will the next roaring flare of flames consume my wretched body and reduce me to a pile of ashes? I pray the wind will quickly blow me into oblivion. A flock of cranes flies overhead and my soul yearns to go with them, soaring freely away, away, away.


Twilight Revelations
Author: * Amleth Yngling - 151 Posts
Date: Nov 12, 2003 - 02:12

My journey up the Boinne, to Tara, is slow and uneventful. There was an unpleasant spell of cold rain, but I kept fairly dry, under cloak and hood. I stop along the banks to hunt my supper, and I feast on pheasant and turnip. My meal is washed down with a horn of Ulfdael beer, reminding me of my days as a young rebel. Tribes were migrating southward, and Sigurd, Beowulf, Old Scefing and I took every opportunity to cause trouble. I miss Jutish hearthfires, Anglish wenches and Volsung hospitality. Those days are gone, and my heart aches by the thought.

Before setting out again, I finish carving a new baron for Nevvyn's Brandubh game, from a chunk of the Carrigfin's stone. I admire my handiwork, etching in the baron's mouth and blowing away the chalk dust. I have fashioned this baron after an old Hneftafl game piece. I do hope the old hedge-wizard appreciates the sentiment.

The sun, completing its brief journey across the sky, is about to fall between Tara's hills of Righ and Laoghaire, and the twilight world is revealed. What was hid all day in shadow, by branch and underbrush, now becomes visible in the golden, sideways sunlight. It is then that I notice a man's pale figure lying in a muddy pool, beside the river. I leap over the port side of the Dragonsilver and run up the bank to where the man lies. He still breathes! Though he is well-groomed and richly dressed, weather and illness have humbled his appearance. I try speaking to the man, but he is unconscious. I am halfway between Tara and Inver Colpa. I know not where this man is from, but I know that I have a better chance of saving him as a clansman in Inver Colpa than as a stranger in Tara. I lift the man over my shoulder and carry him to the Dragonsilver. As I lay him gently in the stern, I notice what appears to be an oaken caltrop stuck in his bloodied shoulder.


My wish is granted
Author: * Summer Isle CuChulainn - 21 Posts
Date: Nov 14, 2003 - 08:37

My wish is granted. The cranes lift me up with feathery arms and carry me with them into the sky. I fall upward into nothingness.

Then the searing frost returns to my limbs. A face appears close to mine, staring with unabashed curiosity. I try to say my name but can only groan. The face goes away, then a waterskin is pressed to my lips. Eager to prove I am still alive, I greedily gulp a few swallows then choke, nearly drowning. There is the sound of oars splashing in the water and a faraway sense of movement. Again I fall into the sky.


Watching and Waiting
Author: * Muirin Beag - 4 Posts
Date: Nov 16, 2003 - 03:47

I crouch down among the high grass at the river's edge and keep invisibly still. Now that I am free from Conaglin's hill, I am able to watch after my prize more closely. So nearly I won him when he arrived on this island, just after Lughnasa. I shot him with a venomous burr, but lost him immediately thereafter to a thieving rogue! My luck, that so readily benefits those in my company, fails me again. I fired another of my faery missles at my prize yesterday, but the shot was intercepted by an unseen hand and struck a hapless traveller many miles farther upstream.

Now I watch as my pretty little prey aids this afflicted stranger, resting him in the dragon-headed curragh and forcing him to drink. When the Wild Hunt returns to find that I've left the hill, they will seek me, find me, and take me back by force.

...Unless I can win my husband first.


The hawk-girl
Author: * Amleth Yngling - 151 Posts
Date: Nov 17, 2003 - 20:32

Tucking away the Brandubh baron into my small, leather pouch, I take the oars and row the elfshot stranger and myself back to Inver Colpa. I don't row a dragon's length before I hear a screech like that of a hawk coming from directly behind me. An arm reaches round and hooks about my neck, in an attempt to strangle me. This hawk has arms! I take hold of the arm and pull the creature over my head - it lands beside the sleeping stranger.

The Dragonsilver rocks where it lies, but I remain standing, using my arms to keep balance. The creature is mortal, arguably a woman, but her ferocity is not that of any civilized human being. She hisses and lunges toward me. I fall back into the stern of the boat, but I catch her wrists and hold her back. I finally manage to push her back and pin her down with my knees. Screeching and thrashing, the savage hawk-girl exhausts herself. I take more notice of her - strikingly attractive features, despite being dirty and unkempt. Her mess of hair is a nest of twigs, leaves, and any filthy thing she could get her dirty fingers on in the woods. Her clothes are no better - thin, dry pelts, better suited for burning than wearing, and certainly not sufficient for surviving the winter.

Out of breath, the hawk-girl relaxes her arms and stares at me strangely. I would almost say she was amused. I continue to hold her for what seems like an hour, until I am confident that she has calmed herself. In that time I speak to her, to which she has no reply, verbal nor facial. I assume she is either mute or speaks only in birdsong. Around her wrist I notice an elegant sling, made of a sort of white silk rope and fine, red leather. Stolen, I imagine. At least now I've caught the stranger's attacker. In fact, I presume that I have caught the one responsible for injuring me the day I arrived in Erinn. How did this backward, woodland nymph learn the art of the faery dart?

I reach for my belt and retrieve some twine with which to bind the hawk-girl's wrists and ankles. She is too dangerous to remain loose in the wild, so I decide to take her back with us. As I row, I stare at her constantly, but her attention is elsewhere. She watches the woods closely, as we drift past each tree; she is looking for someone, or something. In the meantime, she sings a pleasant tune in her queer little trilling voice.


Attacked by a shadow?
Author: * Summer Isle CuChulainn - 21 Posts
Date: Nov 19, 2003 - 15:03

A gentle rocking motion lulls away my pain for awhile and I slip easily into a dream.

I am soaring over the land in lazy spirals, the autumn breeze providing a gentle updraft under my billowing cloak. It is not at all unusual to fly like this. I often take flight in my dreams because I have always admired and envied birds on the wing. As I ride the currents, I look down and see the silver ribbon of river winding through the hills to the sea. The rath looks like a little bowl cupping a handful of tiny round nuggets - the homes of the NiaFer. I think happily of what songs I will sing and what stories I will tell once I return to the domain of the Rian Flidais. The thought of her smile hastens me on the journey. The wind whistles pleasantly and fluffy white clouds scud above me.

Then a shadow rushes past, circling too fast for me to see what it is. A bird of prey! The shadow passes again, closer this time, and I hear the shrill hunting call of a hawk.

A beak, needle-sharp, digs into my shoulder. I cry out and fall, spinning wildly through the sky. The earth leaps up to meet me. The hawk's victorious screech again shatters the peaceful air.

Cold fire flows through me, dragging me from the dream into wakefulness. The sky is darkening overhead. I hear the distinctive swish of oars moving through water. The gentle rocking means I must be on a boat. Someone is singing but not in any language that I have ever heard, a weird piping tune that is strangely soothing. Where am I going? I try but I cannot move, only stare stupidly at the fleeting heavens and silently curse this pain.


My Song
Author: * Muirin Beag - 4 Posts
Date: Nov 25, 2003 - 03:05

The man of Lochlann is afraid of me. As well he should be. I could yet be a good deal of trouble for him. He rows steadily, staring at me always, while the wandering gentleman sleeps at my feet. For now I am at peace, content to let this Lochlann row me back to the Tuatha Inbhar - the Riverfolk. I pull my legs up against me, wrapped in my arms, and I sing:

I am daughter of the Hills,
An archer's surest shot.
I am sister of the Sea,
A sailor's tightest knot.
I am mother of my Wit,
A fisher's sharpest hook.
I am daughter of the Hills,
A shadow's darkest nook.

I look behind me to see that the Inbhar is very near. Will the Wild Hunt discover me before I become a captive of the Lochlann and his Riverfolk? Or do I make my move now? I did not resist the twine around my wrists and ankles, but they certainly do not hold me. Should I desire it, I can easily get out of them. I go through the motions in my head...

I would throw off my bonds, pull my Lochlann prize from his boat, poison him again, and carry him back to my hill. Then I would make him my husband, dissolving my loyalty to Conaglin. Meanwhile, the poor, wounded gentleman would drift alone in the boat, back to the Inbhar.

I decide to keep up the charade a while longer. The owl-girl and the old man who used to visit me in the hills now stay always among the Riverfolk. I have not seen them in at least two winters. Would they remember me? "Little Mwirren" the old man would call me.

Snowflakes fall upon my eyes and lips, and all around us, like stars falling from the sky.

NOTE: These posts have been relocated from their original site in our former story line at the Rath of Celtia. Please to continue. ~ Mac