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[color=BC8F8F][b]Regalion of the Deathless[/b][/color]
In the Lands of Clan Guinn of the Sinn Dhein

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Laird Gealle-Chriosid of Clan Guinn was by no means an old man. His hair, unlike many of his red-haired people, was jet black and not a single white strand was to be spied atop his head or in his beard. And his form was full and muscular, as befit the master of all the green pastures that lay between the vales of Buonlain and Wensau to the far off hills of Sruthgaercil. His cloak on his shoulder, with the [url=https://www.scotclans.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/Dundas_mod_big.jpg]blue, green, and red tartan[/url] of Clan Guinn sewn into it, a tunic of red and tights of green beneath, he looked every part the great laird of much and increasing kyne that he was. The Guinn, however, were a purebred highland people, and it was highland might that brought the green pastures of Buonlain and Wensau into their power. Only Guinn wandered the vales now, their herds and their flocks; and their children could run and frolic all the way to Sruthgaercil without fear. Where were those prideful and decadent M'Hnaen today?

'Whits th'news fae Acroasta, Feihnuil?' Gealle-Chriosid gave his one-eyed companion a sidelong glance, and Feihnuil grinned. 

'We wilnae be seein' muck o' tha' M'Hnaen bas efter tha', ah kin tell ye.' Feihnuil said, rubbing his eye beneath the patch.
 
'Aye? Fled fur th' forests haes 'e?' The young laird asked.

'Hah! Why he likelie wishes th' earth wid swallow him! Bit we'll nae be giein' 'im that sort o' reprieve ferr yit, ye ken? That kyneless wee lowland git.' Gealle-Chriosid chuckled and scratched his crooked nose. 

'We'll fall oan Acroasta tae in time. Let thaim gather up thair men 'n' pat thair kyne tae th' blade wance mair. See if thay kin do muck all ither than flee lik' gutless curs.' 

'That's good. Don't wantae graw soft oan thae bonny wee hills, eh?' 

'Aye. 'n', weel. That M'Hnaen bas - fur a' his [i]dashing guid looks[/i] - haes th' boldest lass. Howfur a charioteering warrior lik' her could hae spawned fae a wiry scrote lik' that ah ne'er ken.' At these words, Feihnuil leered at his laird. 

'Fauchelt o' ol' Maegda awready? Ye ainlie walkd th' tree afore this hail affair broke oot.' 

'Maegda's a darlin', bit whit kin ah say? Th' flesh is a fickle reprobate.' As the two continued jesting with one another, a few figures suddenly appeared over the crest of a distant hill, causing Gealle-Chriosid to nod towards them suspiciously. Feinuil looked towards them, rubbing his blinded eye out of habit. 'M'Hnaen?' The Laird asked. 

'Nah, dinnae lek it. Thay dinnae hae big uns lik' thaten thare.' He reached for a dord at his hips and turned towards the great Guinn encampment nestled at the top of a nearby crest and blew sharply twice. Hefting his spear, laird Gealle-Chriosid began walking down the hill at a leisurely gait, and Feihnuil soon followed. As they approached the strangers, a dozen other warriors had already joined them and it had become abundantly clear that not only were these strangers not M'Hnaen, they were not anything Sinn Dhein. They all wore curious armor that gleamed like bright copper in the midday sun, their weapons being made of a similar material. All of them were [i]too[/i] tall - and unblemished, seemingly untouched by any mark or stain of injury or the passage of years. Their demeanor at being approached by the assembled warriors of the Guinn was one of vague and relaxed bemusement - despite evidently being warriors themselves they did not seem intent on battle just yet.

Two of their number, near the front of their formation, were more ordinary - dressed in simple cloth and bearing the visage of peoples known to the Sinn Dhein from neighboring lands. They seemed more tense than those they walked with, although as they were between two bands of warriors perhaps that was to be expected. Conversing with one of them, one of the foreigners was holding a great, tall wooden beam - and at its tip, capped with more of the gleaming copper-like material, was a wavering cloth banner of white, depicting a queer symbol.

"The fellowship of Providence bids greeting to you, peoples of the Sinn Dhein." One of the two fellows said - a man in his august years with a fading beard and darker eyes. "They do not speak as we do, but there are common tongues between us. I can speak between all of us." Gealle-Chriosid stared at the stranger who spoke for a few moments, then glanced at the tall unblemished men with an annoyed frown - their lack of scars and other marks earned over the years irked him, more so because they all seemed experienced warriors - before returning his gaze to the one who had spoken. 

'Whit urr ye, some easterner? Fae Dinordow or someplace thare?'

"A little ways to the South of there. I'm just a tanner from a smaller village, doesn't even have a name. I speak the fellowship's tongue well enough and had knowledge of this place, so they privileged me with the opportunity to accompany them." The man said. "My fellow here," He gestured briefly at the other plain-clothed man with him - younger and clean-shaven, obviously anxious and somewhat out of his element. "-is much the same." Gealle-Chriosid glanced at the one-eyed Feihnuil, who shrugged. None of them had ever been further east than Dinordow, and they had certainly not ventured south. The man spoke funny, there was no doubt, but no less intelligible than any easterner.

'Aye? 'n' whit brings ye 'n' yer odd fellows sae far north?' The laird questioned.

The man turned to speak with the imposing foreigner with the banner before then turning back to pass on his message to the laird. "My odd fellows are followers of the sorcerer known as Aurochylys, the Lord of Champions and Judge of the Worthy. In exchange for their fealty and by his power, they have attained Immortality. They seek now to travel the lands, spreading word of him and his power, and seeking others worthy of his boons." The Clan Guinn warriors seemed taken aback by these words, and they muttered sceptically to one another. 

'A sorceror ye say? We hae heard o' sic hings. Th' Seer haes spoken o' thae malignant beings fae th' bygone age o' th' gods.' Gealle-Chriosid said, 'Whit mak's this sorceror o' yers worthy o' lording ower champions?'

Another exchange of words between the interpretor and the bannerman. "He is a great healer. They say he can treat any injury, heal the blind and deaf, even restore lost limbs - and that he can grant eternal youth and life everlasting to those he favors. All of the men in this fellowship, here, are touched by his power - and so its potency should be evident." The band of warriors and their laird looked at the giants, and once more irritation flashed in Gealle-Chriosid's eyes, though some among his companions - missing limbs or eyes, parts of noses or fingers - looked with curiosity. Who did not want eternal youth and unblemished form, after all? And did not the Seer himself say that only a champion of unblemished form could ever be a true leader of men? And yet Gealle-Chriosid was that sort who liked his scars and broken nose and put them on display for all - [i]lek 'ere[/i], they said, [i]this here's a Bran that's fought 'n' levd 'n' brought many a brave Bran wee[/i].

'Aye? 'n' howfur ur we tae ken we ur champions brave 'n' true if we hae na need tae fear th' years or th' swords 'n' spears o' men?' The Clan Guinn laird asked.

"That is why Aurochylys is known as the Lord of Champions. He only blesses those who have proven themselves worthy of such boons. Only the bravest, most skilled, and most cunning of warriors can make the best use of such gifts - and so the same goes with those he blesses who are not warriors. He seeks great leaders of men, sages, forgemasters to judge." The interlocutor explained. 

'Bit surely then th' bravest 'n' maist skilled, th' maist cunning 'n' maist gifted, hae na need fur this sorceror's gifts at a'. He is brave 'n' skilled by whit his kyne haes wrought, nae by some sorceror's guile!' And Gealle-Chriosid stamped his foot and his onyx eyes flashed with sudden anger... which dissipitated almost as soon as it arose. 'Bit let us lea this blether. Come, fur ye hae surely come a lang wey fae yer southlands. We wull feed ye 'n' shelter ye while yer among th' Guinn.'

"The fellowship extends its thanks for the hospitality of the Guinn." The interlocutor replied. The small warrior band of Clan Guinn turned about and Feihnuil led the way towards the nearest encampment. A passing cattle driver waved and shouted, and the warriors shouted in return, causing a number of wolfhounds to bark and run towards them before turning about. Gealle-Chriosid stayed by the foreigners and walked with them, telling them that these here hills soon gave way to the great vales of Buonlain and Wensau, pastures that stretched all the way towards the far away hills of Sruthgaercil. 

'Nae lang ago th' prideful clan M'Hnaen drove thair herds 'n' thair flocks 'ere, thair bairns danced 'n' sang in th' vale 'n' thay bathed in th' lochs 'n' swam in th' rivers at ease. Bit thay wur a mean 'n' miserly lot, 'n' sae we descended oan thaim 'n' drove thaim fae th' greenery 'n' ease in whilk thay dwelled. 'n' noo th' flocks 'n' herds o' clan Guinn stravaig th' vale, 'n' it's oor bairns that sing 'n' dance whaur yesterday th' M'Hnaen wur. 'n' oan th' morrow we'll descend oan thaim again, 'n' all o' th' world wull seem tae wee fur that miserly lot then!' The laird gestured proudly here and there, inviting them to take in the beauty and bounty of the pastures that belonged to the Guinn. 'Na laird o' M'Hnaen cuid withstand mah spear, 'n' ah hae taken as many heids as tears thay shed. 'ere we ur th' warriors 'n' masters, 'n' na champion greater than ah treads th' land fae 'ere tae Sruthgaercil. Ah hae na need fur boasts, fur mah many scars a' speak fur me - bit yer foreigners 'n' wid nae ken, sae noo ye dae.'

There was a brief exchange between the interlocutor and one of the foreigners - and the man then relayed the question. "Where now do the M'Hnaen dwell? The fellowship has made little effort to hide their trail and may well have been followed. If by your enemies, they would seek to preserve you against them." The laird sneered at the interlocuter. 

'Th' M'Hnaen ur holed up in Acroasta, 'n' thair weakling laird haes fled far intae th' forests 'n' left his daughter tae fend fur her fowk alone. If she comes, then th' warriors o' Clan Guinn wull coupon her, nae ye. If ye wish tae scratch yer itch, then ye kin ainlie trust yer ain nail efter a'. Mibbie ye shuid gang offer thaim a hawnd, if ye wish tae keep a'body against thair enemies.' He paused for a few moments. 'Nae that it wull dae thaim ony guid. They're a kyneless fowk. How come, yin loses kyne by warring wi' thaim!' The laird continued speaking to his guests, telling them of the beauty of his highland home and how the mountains forged true warriors and men while the lowlands sprouted such [i]bonny wee tings[/i]. 

And the guests were brought into camp and cows and goats were slaughtered and put on spits all over, and the Guinn prepared a great feast to welcome the foreigners who had placed themselves under their protection. Dords were blown and the Guinn from across the vale streamed about until it seemed that no hilltop or hillside was bare of them. Mead and wines were brought forth, as were an assortment of sweet-nuts and fruits. One of the warriors rose at one point and began reciting some poetry in praise of the great conquering laird Gealle-Chriosid, bane of M'Hnaen and taker of the two vales. Eventually the laird sat back, a clay goblet of mead nestled in his hands. 'Bit yer fellows hae nae tellt us thair names, southerner. An' neither hae either o' ye. Or does th' laird Aurochylys nae permit his chosen champions names?'

The interlocuter engaged in an exhaustive person-by-person narrative with each member of the Fellowship - who, through his proxy, went about introducing themselves. All of them - perhaps unnecessarily - appended 'of the Immortals' to their own introduction. The last to introduce themselves was the true giant amongst them - the one who bore a breatbow, curiously curved at its ends, which itseful was nearly the full height of the laird himself.

"...and the master of the Fellowship is pleased to announce himself as Regalion, First Amongst the Deathless and foremost Champion of Worth under the great Aurochylys." The interlocuter finished. As roasts from the spit and drink were passed around, the Fellowship were by large pleased to accept and to praise the quality of the stock and the means by which it had been raised - though when sustenance was offered to Regalion, he declined.

"Regalion, as one of the Deathless, no longer requires any sustenance. He may partake of it for pleasure alone, but would prefer not to be wasteful of what our generous hosts have offered the fellowship." The man explained. Those who heard, including the laird, looked from the interlocuter to Regalion with visible bafflement. Such manner of feasting, after all, could never be intended for sustenance alone - aye they ate and drank and made merry, but it was ultimately a display. Generosity, hospitality, wealth; all these were on display that all present may know that this was a clan of great power and kyne, and their laird likewise. A refusal to partake, for whatever reason, was an affront. It was a wound inflicted against the honour of the clan and laird - [i]I shan't partake of your food and goodwill[/i] it said, [i]you are beneath my recognition[/i], it spoke. And when the laird frowned and sat back, others too sat back. And the eating and drinking came to a halt, and the singing too - slowly, slowly now across this hill and now that -, so that all was silent as the laird stared with furrowed brows at the giant who would not eat.

The second of the interlocutors - the younger, clean-shaven man - more familiar with the social mores of the Sinn Dhein and just as perturbed as they were by the display - hurriedly muttered an interjection to the fellowship's bannerman. What was clearly an argument of some sort ensued between the interlocutor, the bannerman, and two more of the supposed Immortals. The first Interlocutor - more nonplussed - translated a portion of the exchange aloud, much to the consternation of the Immortals sitting astride him, who grimaced and glared as he spoke.

"The fellowship are protesting their breach of your custom due to ignorance and by their own." He explained. "It is my opinion that Regalion intends no slight." 

Moments the words left his lips, the Immortals arguing with with the second interlocutor finally turned to Regalion, addressing him in a mixture of inquisitive - and berating - tones.

Regalion then spoke in a lax, conversational tone, his manner unbidden. His voice was the low rumble of distant thunder, and his vision was darkly clouded in a manner that made his intent difficult to gauge. Whatever it was he spoke, both of the translators immediately flinched in apprehension. After they hesitated for a moment too long, one of the Immortals barked, and the elder interlocutor spoke, haltingly.

"Regalion of the Deathless abides without fear, shame, or apology. He has elected not to eat and will heed no imperative to do so." Gealle-Chriosid looked to the giant with cold, black eyes.

'Is that sae then,' the laird said, though it was no question, and he lifted his cup slowly, eyes not wavering from Regalion, and tipped its contents to the earth. It was meaning beyond words. 'If Regalion o' th' Deathless spurns oor goodwill 'n' fails tae be a goodly guest, then oor goodwill is hurled 'n' we shall nae be hosts tae him or his folk at a',' Gealle-Chriosid rose, and a number of his warriors stood too, hands on spears, and he spoke to the interlocutor, 'Ye kin see yerself 'n' yer master awa', ah wouldna pity mah kin wi' yer blood th' nicht. Bit let him ken that he is ma enemy th'day 'n' ever, 'n' mah folk his people's bane.'

The interlocutors relayed the message. The fellowship of immortals seemed to hold their breath as Regalion replied.

"...Regalion of the Deathless inquires if you speak for all of the the peoples of the clan of Guinn, from its warriors and its men, to all of its women and its children. He seems to believe you bear not the years nor the wisdom to be the elder of them all-:"

"Please also note we are [i]merely[/i] translators, and are not part of this fellowship ourselves." The younger interlocutor burst out suddenly. "Permit us the opportunity to flee before you and this queer assembly calling itself a fellowship come to blows." Gealle-Chriosid's eyes flashed with a sudden cold fury and he snarled something at the interlocutor, and almost immediately a number of dords were blown and the Guinn encampment and all the hills about came alive again as the warriors and clansfolk who had not so long ago been feasting all rose and took up their spears and arms.

'Ye'll tell yer master this, southerner, there'll be blood betwixt us - o' that's na doubt. Bit ah will nae butcher mah people's kyne by killing him 'n' his folk whin a'd granted thaim safety. Sae git ye gaen 'n' let that be th' lest word - 'cause whin neist we meet, th' spear wull speak.'

The second interlocutor broke and ran then and there, much to the startled amazement of the first and the bemusement of the fellowship of Immortals. Pointing after him, the remaining translator babbled to the fellowship.

Their unexpected response was simply to fill the tension-filled air of the hillside with bellowing laughter. The bannerman exchanged a few words with Regalion before then issuing a new statement to the apoplectic translator - as Regalion rose like an ominous thunderhead from where he sat. As the interlocutor haltingly translated, two of the Immortals attended to the giant and began to assist him with the clasps of his armor, so as to shuck it off.

"Regalion of the Deathless acknowledges your grievance. He will permit you two blows with which to attempt to slay him, from which he will not evade. If you can fell him, his fellowship will acknowledge you as his better. If you fail, they shall all depart the land and pay you no mind forevermore, for you shall not be worth your own skins for them to pity with honorable death." The black-haired laird scowled and spat on the ground, his mind whirring behind his obsidian eyes. No laird worth his kyne could reject such a public challenge outright.

'Ah will accept - oan a condition. That he cast aside whitevur daemonic magicks grip him 'n' tak' mah blows as any Bran. Nae fair, is't, tae tak' mortal wounds whin ye've git some sorcerous daemon's magick oan ye noo is it? Hardly a Bran at a', 'n' ah needn't prove a'm better than something that's hardly a Bran.'

The interlocutor relayed the caveat, and the bannerman's response.

"They say this is the only redress for your grievance that is permitted. They have instructed me to repeat ernestly that you are either to accept their offer or still your whelp tongue and abandon your claim of affront, in light of your eagerness to boast that you should be the better of any blessed man by wit of your skill and prowess alone. You are either stronger without, or weaker and thus forfeit all privilege."

'Twa blows tae slay him ye say?' The dark-eyed laird asked, scratching his crooked nose.

"Two blows which he may not evade, and as you can see, he shall take them without armament." The interlocutor gestured to the now bare-chested Regalion as the giant strode forward, his very steps echoing about like tumbling boulders. His chest and abdomen were well muscled, but also layered with measures of fat - he was clearly not some preening sculptor of the body, though one might have been forgiven for thinking it, as no scars nor marks of any kind crossed his frame. He did not even deign the laird with a look - he simply gazed askance at nothing in particular, his expression bored, not even having the grace to behold his enemy with either contempt or appraisal. The Guinn laird grinned, though the aloof giant did not see, his black eyes flashing with sudden mischief.

'Hold yerself, ye muck oaf. Twa blows it wull be, 'n' ye shan't evade thaim. An' thay shall be delivered at a time o' mah choosing - return in five days, 'n' it wull be dane then.'

The interlocutor relayed the message. Regalion himself replied with a single utterance.

"Regalion hereby accuses you of cowardice." The interlocutor had the dignity to grimace as he spoke.

'Ah accuse ye o' faithlessness - ye gave yer word, 'n' ah accepted. Sae wull ye be held tae it or wull ye nae? Ah wull have the blows delivered whin ah please. Noo begone.'

The bannerman frowned as the translator passed on the words, and barked a harsh and lengthy sequence out in response.

"The fellowship will abide by their word, but believe you have demonstrated callowness and that you will flee come the chosen time. They demand promise or collateral to ensure [i]your[/i] faithfulness." The interlocutor passed on warily.

'Yer ignorant o' oor ways, giant, 'n' that haes awready cost you,' the laird said, and spread his arms wide, 'my fowk ur witness, 'n' wull haud me tae accoont - wha, pray tell, wull haud [i]you strangers[/i] tae accoont? Ye hae refused mah conditions 'n' noo attempt tae gang back oan yer word. If an'body's in need o' collateral, it's me.'

Paling, the translator faithfully relayed the message, speaking in turn as the laird himself did before then turning to pass on Regalion's response.

"Regalion shall remain where he stands now for five days and five nights without sustenance or sucor as collateral. If he should leave this place it shall be taken as a sign of forfeiture and his own fellowship shall turn upon him. The fellowship have instructed me to append that your calls for delay and delegation are piteous and the act of one born a gelding, and that you are a barking, toothless mongrel best put down rather than perturb the future of his people any further, and is evidence in and of itself that you are incapable of performing." The mischief in the laird's eyes faded and the beginnings of a snarl remained, but he calmed himself.

'Twa blows it shall be, in five days. Though 'tis th' hi'est gree o' cowardice tae bring magicks tae they wi'oot, as ye folk dae, ah shan't complain 'n' shall dae a' that wit 'n' micht gie me tae mak' they twa blows count.' The laird spread his arms and backed away with a small smile on his lips, 'ye bade richt in steid, oaf, 'n' ah will see ye in five days,' and with that he turned away from the foreigners and walked swiftly into the darkness while shouting for his lairdsdord and chariot.

"They are in accord with you, laird of the Guinn!" The interlocutor called back to him. The fellowship of Immortals, their blood now raised but without excuse to excise it of its fire, set about to putting up a makeshift camp about where Regalion stood. A number of the warriors of the Guinn remained nearby, keeping an eye on the giant to ensure he did not move from his place, but the encampment was gone at dawn along with the rest of the clan.

One of the warriors of the Guinn, who was more perceptive than many of his kin, watched the fellowship carefully as he did now - and noted that amongst their number, one who had arrived with them was now absent. Had one of them slipped away during the ruckus? And for what purpose?

[hider=Summary]The laird of Clan Guinn, Gealle-Chriosid, jests with one of his companions. They have been warring with Clan M'Hnaen over fertile pastures and have them on the run. As they are surveying their new pastures, Regalion & Friends arrive and there is a minor face off in which they attempt to showcase the superiority of their forms and their sorceror-lord. The laird is not impressed by what he essentially percieves to be cheating - how can you be brave and worthy if you have no need to fear any sort of harm or death, he reasons. Nevetheless, other warriors - missing limbs or scarred - do look upon the offered gifts with interest. Their laird's position holds them in place, however.

The Guinn host the fellowship and provide them with a great feast, but things go awry when Regalion does not eat, which is viewed by the Guinn as an insult. The miscommunication is explained, but Regalion chooses to stick with his guns and not eat, which the Guinn view as a definite insult this time. Gealle-Chriosid tells them they're not welcome anymore and should leave. And that they're now his enemies and the enemies of his tribe for this slight. Regalion offers the laird the opportunity to deliver two blows to him, which he would not attempt to evade or wear armour for, and if he manages to kill him then the fellowship will recognise his greatness. If he fails, they would leave because he and his people are unworthy. After a lengthy back and forth where the Laird attempts to get Regalion to shed his magick for this challenge, they agree that the blows will be delivered in five days time. The laird goes off to scheme and one of the Fellowship mysteriously disappears.[/hider]