The kindred mountains speak in whispered tongues about the man called "Nathair," born of the snake in the Celtic language. Since birth, he has stood out among his three brothers for his bravery and cunning. At ten, called to war, he led a charge on a neighbouring village when seasoned warriors would not take the risk. He claimed three ears that day and has since become a man. Now he stands on his father's council, addressing the matter of his brother's initiation into Chieftaincy. But even as the mountains still whisper of betrayal, his friends begin to arrive to take part in the aonach. One of them, a young woman and good friend of Nathair's since childhood, sees the warning signs in the bitter smoke and intends to alert Nathair of the coming storm...
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"Alas, perhaps I am cursed. After all, there is little honor in striking down your own brother..." — Nathair to Aoife.
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Nathair awoke from a bad dream. He was abed in his family's long hall. He turned over restlessly and heard his uncle and brothers snoring in the adjacent stalls. It must have still been early morning, for the cracks in the walls were dark. He reached up and wiped the sweat from his face, then thought back to the vision that had disturbed his sleep.
He and his brother had been talking in the barley fields. They had been but children. Nathair had mentioned to him how his dream had always been to cross the isles and see the lands of the English and Scottish and perhaps marry a Scot bride and inherit a castle. Perhaps then he could retire a great warrior and be spoken of in the ballads, like Cú Chulainn. His brother had listened whilst playing with the head of a javelin they'd found down by the brook. They carried it as a token of their friendship. The gae was made of bronze and shone half-green in the sunlight. His brother had frowned whilst he told him about his hopes and dreams. Then once his back was turned, he'd felt a sudden pain in his left shoulder, and he'd turned about to see his brother standing there--a grown man, looking down at him with the illest contempt. He thought he heard the words: "We can't both be the heroes of our clan, Nathair." Though he wasn't sure. He had awoken to a stiff banging on the doors of the hall, and the dream had become muddy in the way that dreams often did when they were too frightening and unsavoury to remember....
Bundling himself into his léine and brat, Nathair dragged himself out of bed and made his way over to the doors and keeled them open. A low song greeted him--drunk and gay--and he saw his three friends standing there. Rían, Tahdg and Aoife; each none-too-sober and all of them mud-speckled from travel. They grinned when they saw him and came inside, embracing him around the shoulders.
"Ready for the aonach are you?" Rían said, whispering so as not to wake the hall.
"As ready as I can be under the circumstances. It's not often your brother becomes Chieftain," Nathair replied sheepishly. He then laughed as Tahdg passed him a horn of ale and bundled himself around the fire. Nathair stoked the flames for them all, and they got settled around the hearth where bulbs of garlic and dried perch hung from the shelves.
"Bah! It should've been you, Nathair. The bloody line of succession is a beggar's prize. You might as well challenge him to a game of steel and take the title for yourself," Rían said as he tossed his wool cloak over an empty hook. He then rubbed his hands together and came and joined them.
Nathair smiled grimly and tried not to think of the dream. He could've sworn Aoife was watching him carefully. She'd had a sort of restless energy about her since entering the hall. Her eyes often sought his, and she hadn't yet removed her warm things. He avoided her gaze deftly and tried to focus upon his cups. When she saw this, her hand came and settled upon his knee. "Is something the matter, Nathair?" she said, as if she could yet see the dream playing out in his mind.
"Strange dreams," was all he said, giving her a reassuring glance and a feigned smile. That did not reassure her any and he could tell as much. In fact, it only seemed to unsettle her further. She looked longly into his eyes, as if she could sense his apprehension and darkening mood, and even with Rían and Tadhg making arses of themselves, her eyes never left his.
"We should talk," she said eventually, and he sighed wearily as she stood up. He knew she would pester him all morning if he did not come along. And with a glance across the room, Aoife hinted him to come with her and leave the fire behind....
◢▬▭▭▭▭▭▬▟ 𖣂 ▙▬▭▭▭▭▭▬◣
"Alas, perhaps I am cursed. After all, there is little honor in striking down your own brother..." — Nathair to Aoife.
◢▬▭▭▭▭▭▬▟ 𖣂 ▙▬▭▭▭▭▭▬◣
Nathair awoke from a bad dream. He was abed in his family's long hall. He turned over restlessly and heard his uncle and brothers snoring in the adjacent stalls. It must have still been early morning, for the cracks in the walls were dark. He reached up and wiped the sweat from his face, then thought back to the vision that had disturbed his sleep.
He and his brother had been talking in the barley fields. They had been but children. Nathair had mentioned to him how his dream had always been to cross the isles and see the lands of the English and Scottish and perhaps marry a Scot bride and inherit a castle. Perhaps then he could retire a great warrior and be spoken of in the ballads, like Cú Chulainn. His brother had listened whilst playing with the head of a javelin they'd found down by the brook. They carried it as a token of their friendship. The gae was made of bronze and shone half-green in the sunlight. His brother had frowned whilst he told him about his hopes and dreams. Then once his back was turned, he'd felt a sudden pain in his left shoulder, and he'd turned about to see his brother standing there--a grown man, looking down at him with the illest contempt. He thought he heard the words: "We can't both be the heroes of our clan, Nathair." Though he wasn't sure. He had awoken to a stiff banging on the doors of the hall, and the dream had become muddy in the way that dreams often did when they were too frightening and unsavoury to remember....
Bundling himself into his léine and brat, Nathair dragged himself out of bed and made his way over to the doors and keeled them open. A low song greeted him--drunk and gay--and he saw his three friends standing there. Rían, Tahdg and Aoife; each none-too-sober and all of them mud-speckled from travel. They grinned when they saw him and came inside, embracing him around the shoulders.
"Ready for the aonach are you?" Rían said, whispering so as not to wake the hall.
"As ready as I can be under the circumstances. It's not often your brother becomes Chieftain," Nathair replied sheepishly. He then laughed as Tahdg passed him a horn of ale and bundled himself around the fire. Nathair stoked the flames for them all, and they got settled around the hearth where bulbs of garlic and dried perch hung from the shelves.
"Bah! It should've been you, Nathair. The bloody line of succession is a beggar's prize. You might as well challenge him to a game of steel and take the title for yourself," Rían said as he tossed his wool cloak over an empty hook. He then rubbed his hands together and came and joined them.
Nathair smiled grimly and tried not to think of the dream. He could've sworn Aoife was watching him carefully. She'd had a sort of restless energy about her since entering the hall. Her eyes often sought his, and she hadn't yet removed her warm things. He avoided her gaze deftly and tried to focus upon his cups. When she saw this, her hand came and settled upon his knee. "Is something the matter, Nathair?" she said, as if she could yet see the dream playing out in his mind.
"Strange dreams," was all he said, giving her a reassuring glance and a feigned smile. That did not reassure her any and he could tell as much. In fact, it only seemed to unsettle her further. She looked longly into his eyes, as if she could sense his apprehension and darkening mood, and even with Rían and Tadhg making arses of themselves, her eyes never left his.
"We should talk," she said eventually, and he sighed wearily as she stood up. He knew she would pester him all morning if he did not come along. And with a glance across the room, Aoife hinted him to come with her and leave the fire behind....
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) So far it actually writes itself. It has a certain formula going for it:
I love the border of this PFP. I thought it looked awesome on the forums!!