[center][color=a36209] ( ( 𖣂 ) ) ▬▬▬.◙.▬▬▬ ═▓▒░ 🕈 .. 🕈 ░▒▓═ ▬▬▬.◙.▬▬▬ [/color][/center] [color=8882be]Nathair spent the rest of the morning in a state of performance.[/color][color=8dc73f] While his friends boasted and laughed, he managed only to scrape by with mild jests and witless comments. His gaze was that of a stray dog, constantly drawn to the stalls where his uncle and brother slept. A movement to his left made him realise he was not alone in this, either. [color=ed1c24]Aoife [/color]was caught by the same dark mood. He watched her studying the hides of the roofing, her eyes narrow as if waiting for the very moment his brother would pull himself out of bed and make himself known. The morning passed by with grueling slowness as a result; like blood being sieved through a pitcher of honey. Nathair wished for nothing more than to lick the taint off his fingers, spit it into the fire and be done with it. It was no small mercy when Cullan finally announced himself and the hall truly came alive. The village maidens—red-headed, freckled, and much the talk of the room thanks to Rían and Tadhg—giggled as they slathered Cullan's hair with lime, making it wiry and stiff. Cullan sat among them jesting, calling his own kin to share the wine, but rarely did his hospitality extend to Nathair and his friends. While Nathair, Rían, and Tadhg sat there toasting the man and sharing in the merriment, it felt like something was missing. This should've been a joyous occasion, but it felt like their presence was not wanted. The smoke from the village clung to the roof, thick and dense, burning their lungs and making it increasingly hard to enjoy the gathering. At one point, one of the red-headed maidens went to sit with Tadhg, but Cullan's men dragged her back and scolded her. And that was that. Tadhg and Rían would have no more part of it, lest they ended up making a scene before the aonach had even begun. They all decided to leave in the end, and did so with begrudging smiles on their faces. As they went, Nathair could still feel Aoife watching his brother from afar. It was true that Cullan had watched them go with some small measure of relief, and frankly—Nathair could make no sense of it. It felt like just yesterday they had been friends. "Don't you worry, Nathair," Rían said, shaking his head as they stepped out of the hall and into the cool air. "Your brother's just getting ready to be an ass. Takes an ass to make a Chieftain; everyone knows that." "Not much company, is he, my nephew?" came a familiar voice. Nathair looked over his shoulder to find his uncle had fallen in with them. Nathair took a moment to study him. After all, it had been some months since he'd seen him last. Maguire was a jovial sort. He was short in stature, moustachioed, and dark of hair. Though he seemed unassuming enough, Nathair knew for a fact he had killed at least three rivals in schemes that had kept the gossips wagging their tongues. He ruled over a holdfast just across the border. As the village made last minute preparations for the aonach, his uncle sat down with them by the fire and leaned back on his elbows in the grass. He then set his mind towards Aoife's clothes. "And what is this? Aoife, the most formidable huntress in the glen has come to the celebrations dressed as if she's been wrestling a [i]ballybog[/i] all morning! Surely a girl of your standing could not summon up something more festive...?" "The only bog sprite I see here is busy sitting in the mud and running his mouth, dear uncle," she countered with her teeth around a spoonful of oats and porridge. She sent him a wicked glare that was just short of being friendly. "I see they've taught the monsters of the glen to sit upright. Tell me, do you also intend to stay sober enough to last throughout the entire aonach, or is it in fact your plan to retire sometime in the afternoon, old man?" Tadhg and Rían laughed aloud, and Nathair could not help but smile as Maguire clicked his tongue and responded with a scoff. He then pulled his dagger and pointed it at her liberally, and she lifted her hands up innocently enough. "I'm no uncle of yours, maiden," Maguire replied. "And I dare you to remember it in case any of my sons need a wife," Maguire shook the blade at the rest of them. "And here's hoping they don't! You'll soon as like turn them into punching bags or eunuchs than provide them with a babe!" Aoife laughed along with the others. The sounds of their merriment carried across the timber walls of the log house. But her eyes soon drifted back to Nathair. He was sat stiff, his gaze tracking the movements of some of his brother's men; his ale forgotten in his hand. She pulled a small face before replying to Maguire. "Careful now, old man," she said, leaning across the stones until the firelight made her braids shine gold. "Even if I do birth a pair of punching bags, they'll at least know how to hold their own. Better a warrior's wife than a sweet lady who faints at the sight of her own husband's horn!" They burst into fresh laughter, and Aoife reclined in satisfaction and studied Nathair out of the corner of her eye. She then looked over her shoulder and caught sight of Cullan in the courtyard. She leaned in and muttered. "He certainly looks the part, doesn't he?" She said. Cullan stood there bleached in limestone and two feet taller for it. His hair all pointed and his braided iron torc glinting in the sun. Nathair couldn't deny he looked every bit a Chieftain and leader of men. It filled his heart with promise and dread. "Remember Nathair," Aoife whispered to his shoulder, keeping her voice low as not to alert Tahdg or Rían. "A man's fine stature during the day tells you nothing about the long shadow he casts at night." "Stop adding omens to dreams," he growled into her ear. He then gave her a rough bite on the lobe to teach her a lesson. Aoife let out a broad yelp, torn between a squeal and a shout. She swatted at his arm ferociously and blushed until she wore a corset made up of freckles and soft red skin. "You brute," she cursed him, rubbing at her ear. "Is that how a warrior treats a woman? If you go on acting like this, the village will think you've been spending too much time wrestling mountain cats like a common soldier." "I am no common soldier," he reminded her, and she stared up at him with her nose wrinkled and eyes challenging the notion. He felt for her the same competitiveness he felt towards his brother in that moment. He almost bared his teeth. "Fine. No more omens for now," she patted him on the cheek softly, turning from him and ending the challenge. She recognised the seriousness of his nature. "But do not blame me if the Gods speak to you in a language you cannot ignore." He could feel Aoife's spirit tied to his, and he knew she meant well, but he could no longer sit with her and share her mood; for it too keenly mirrored his own. He stood up and went to take a piss in the ferns. "Nathair," a voice said from behind him a moment later. He turned and looked and saw it was his father. He was waiting for him outside the long hall. "When you're done there, I'd like you to come and have a word, lad." Nathair finished what he was doing and met him halfway. He knew it would be about preparations for the aonach. "This celebration is no place for boasting about old kills," his father said. "You and your friends will have to mind their own business today, you understand? Be strong, but don't let your [i]flute[/i] do the talking. That goes for your clansmen as well." "Pay me no mind, father. I'm proud of Cullan. I've no intention of challenging his claim," Nathair said. "That makes me proud. Listen, there'll be plenty of flatha about town soon enough. They'll be looking to Cullan to see if he can handle himself. You keep your brother steady, aye? Watch the men. Watch the visitors. Be the warrior the clan needs. Honour your brother and good things will come lad. You have my word." Nathair thanked his father and went on his way, but despite what had been said, he followed through with the rest of the preparations like a man wading through deep water. Aoife's haunting whispers followed him throughout the market square. It was only his father's stern commands that kept his mind from lurching around in the tumult. Every time he saw Cullan speaking with the village elders a cold knot formed in his stomach. He tried to press it down, but the memory of the javelin in his dream felt as real as the saex upon his hip. He was glad when the rest of the guests showed up so that he could stop pretending to be busy. In time the sun settled high in the sky and long, sharp shadows crowded the village square. The aonach had begun, and the air grew thick with restless chatter, smoked meats and the promise of ale. It was the lyres and drums though that signalled the real start of the festivities though. Aoife found him just as the crowd began to swell. Likely spurred by Maguire, she'd changed into a sage green tunic with red accents that made her braids pop like the last embers on a dying hearth. She asked to dance with him and took him by the hands, though he could sense her cunning bleeding through with every step. She was keeping up with the other girls, but he did not notice her movements. It was only her voice that he heard. "So it is time," she said. "The clan's eyes are upon you, Nathair. Even though it is your brother's day, make sure to stand tall. Let them see your strength and not the shadow he casts upon you." Nathair swallowed and danced with her, forming a tight smile. But he was not truly there. He felt like a ghost at a wedding. Women looked into his eyes and men raised their glasses to him and if they saw anything hollow about his gestures they gave no sign, but he could not take his eyes off the stand; even as Aoife performed whirls beneath his arm and sent her hair tumbling across his chest; even as bubbly laughter formed in her throat and she squealed with excitement whenever he tossed her. He felt not a bit of her warmth. His brother was getting ready to make a speech, and as Cullan took to the stage, the music suddenly died as if its throat had been cut.[/color] [center][color=a36209] ▬▬▬.◙.▬▬▬ ═▓▒░ 🕈 .. 🕈 ░▒▓═ ▬▬▬.◙.▬▬▬ ( ( 𖣂 ) ) [/color][/center]