Ciaran of Emain Macha and Dun Dalgan
Red Branch Knight
Kingdom Of Ulster in Eire

APPEARANCE-
Black hair, worn long and loose
Blue Eyes
Lean Muscular build
Tanned skin... unusual in todays Ireland... but the warrior society of 
ancient Ireland spent a great deal of time outdoors.

5'9" ( a giant in his day )
160#

Two Horses and chariot... (now lost due to death, property of Red 
Branch now)
summer clothes
winter clothes
bastard sword-thrusting- named Bas Cuartu- Death Seeker
knife
spear-broken in battle- but easy to come by
personal basics
whetstone
wool blanket
sandals
small waterskin
leather corselet- pierced on both front and back in battle

BASIC TENANTS OF THE FIANNA CODE OF HONOR

Loyalty to family, clan, king, nation
Respect and Honor seers,druids, and wisdoms
Respect and Honor the Brehon and the Brehon Law
Respect and Honor holy places, shrines, burial cairns, vaults and tombs
Defend king/queen and nation when called
Provide hospitality to any who ask or need
Aid the weak and unprotected
Defend the weak and unprotected
Set aside all personal and clan differences to defend High King and 
nation

===============================================

"Cairan... Cairan, wake up lad."

The boy sat bolt upright, from a dream of Gods, Fey Magic, and beautiful 
Sidhe woman, to see the face of his father. It was morning and his 
father's breath was thick with the smell of ale, as usual. 

"Get up lad... Get  your arse off'n the bed and grab your blade."

The boy's eyes widened. He knew that his father was serious and 
wanted him out on the field now. He scrabbled his way into his tunic and 
tied it off with his rope. The sword was kept under his tick mattress and 
took him a moment to wrest it free. 

There was a battle to be fought and Emain Macha was in danger. There 
was a gleam in Ciaran's eyes as he settled on the thought. A battle. His 
first one. Which clan could be coming... Perhaps the Connaughtmen 
were coming for a piece.... No, Emain Macha was too far away from 
Connaught to make that very likely. And they wouldn't dare to come at 
Emain Macha when the Red Branch was away. There was no honor in 
that.

His mind raced and swirled with all kinds of possibilities as he tore from 
the earthen house into the bright morning sun. The men and the women 
of the village were gathering. Suddenly Ciaran felt very embarrassed as 
he stormed to the front of the crowd to stand beside his father. His father 
had no weapon and stared at the horizon. There were chariots.... 
MacNessa's own. The Red Branch knights of Ulaid were coming home 
to Emain Macha. The simple crossroads village that served as their 
village had become a place to watch the return of the mighty Red 
Branch of Ulster. The banner's of Mac Nessa whipped in the wind and 
as they drew closer and the sense of his embarassment weighed upon 
him. He stood with his sword, perhaps all of 14 summers, ready to 
defend his home while the Red Branch was away to the west....

But he didn't feel much like a defender at this moment. He wanted to 
crawl away, to hide, all the other young men had already seen him and 
his sword... and they laughed.... the young ladies snickered to 
themselves and  Ciaran felt very alone. He wanted to kill his father for 
doing this to him. For what reason could he have told him to bring the 
blade... especially when it was only the king's army returning to the 
Caislean.

His father was a drunkard and a louse who was intent on ruining not 
only his own life, but also Ciaran's... just as he had done to his mother.... 
and the anger churned in him. The laughter and jokes continued.... And 
the Red Branch was close now.

His father held him fast near him and when the army passed along the 
road, the crowd opened way for the Chariots to ride through. Conor 
himself rode in the lead chariot and he met the crowd with his usual 
grace and good nature. His golden hair flowing and dancing upon the 
sun. Legend had it that Conor's father was a giant and that his heritage 
and line was passed to him through Nessa, his mother... But Legend's 
were a fanciful thing. He was in the here and now....

As Conor passed the father and the sword bearing son, he signalled for 
his charioteer to stop. His eyes fell upon the boy and he studied the 
sword for a long moment and then he laughed.... loud and hearty.

"Rory.... you old dog... What is the meaning of all this.... You stand out 
here in the bloody sun and there's not a pint in your hands and your boy 
carries a sword that's near his match to lift."

The anger was about as much as he could bear and Ciaran knew that it 
wasn't his place to speak, but he had no desire to be humiliated any 
further.

"I am not a boy and I can swing with the best of that bunch...," he 
snarled. His hand swept over the army behind Conor. "I was told that I 
had to bring my blade... there were chariots coming..... I damn well did 
what I thought was right."

And Conor focused on him and leveled a speculative stare.

"And you hoped to defend my home, while I was away?"

There came a laughter.... The Red Branch, the people of Emain Macha, 
and the Boy's Troop... the young warrior's who were priveleged to train 
for the honor of joining the mighty Red Branch. They all laughed at the 
King's words, but Conor did not. He was silent and studied the boy's 
eyes.

Without blinking or faltering, Ciaran met the stare and matched it. He 
had further made a fool of himself, but he couldn't go back now... so he 
went forward.


"It's my home too, and I will defend it if need be..."

"Boy," soke Conor. "You've got the spirit... And I'd be a fool not to see 
it... Long ago, your father had the spirit when __my__ father was king.... 
And you are your father's son, I can see that in your eyes."

With a wave of his hand he called forth a young man from the Boy's 
Troop. 

"Seatanta will see if you have the skill....."

And the soldier youth pulled his own blade and the crowd fell back. 
Ciaran stood in shock as the soldier boy advanced on him. Conor 
watched on with a look of speculation. Perhaps a man surveying his 
cattle.... And his damnable father, had an amused smile... this pleased 
him. Why? 

This Seatanta guy was going to attack him and he couldn't fathom the 
reason to that either. He had no quarrel with anyone, and this was 
awfully severe for someone who spoke their mind. There was nothing he 
could say, so he didn't speak.

When the young knight in training closed on him and raised the blade, 
Ciaran swung into action. He no longer felt anything except the fight 
before him.

The swords clashed and rang and Ciaran relied on every instinct he had 
and every bit of training that his father had forced him to learn. And the 
minutes passed as the two surged and withdrew, parried and thrust. 
Time of no known length passed as the two fought. The metal made 
terrible noise as it came toghether one time after another. Both Cairan 
and the other had bruises and minor cuts but neither had the clear 
advantage. But, Cairan knew he was tiring fast. He also knew that the 
boy he faced was better than him. Seatanta had had real training and 
served with the Red Branch Boy's Troop. And Cairan was just a drunk's 
son with a big mouth.

All Cairan had left was fury and emotion... and when that failed him...it 
would be over. And he drove on like an insane fool.... There was no 
sense left to it and he swung and swung and drove like an animal... a 
wounded animal.

As to  when it was all over, he couldn't remember, but he still lived. His 
eyes opened and it was dark... a dark room. Seatanta stood nearby and 
smiled. A smile of respect... It had to be a hallucination. Conor stooped 
over him as he came to. Then they moved away to leave him alone on 
the cot.

He was inside... inside the castle. And torches flickered a dim light 
across everyone's features. He heard the King and then he heard his 
father's voice.... It was all so distant, and every part of him hurt.

"It's the only thing that I could do for the lad.... I had to give him a 
chance to be something," his father said. "Something more than me... 
and something I had lost the right to offer... I had to trick you into seeing 
th boy fight."

"Aye Rory... you knew that I'd be coming home with my newest recruits 
and you knew that I have to see what would cause a boy to come with a 
blade as we returned from the field. You knew your boy was good, but 
your past would mean we never consider him.  You're as crafty now as 
then... Aye, Rory... you took a big chance... I could have you stripped 
and flayed for such a move... but I admire the nerve... and the spirit of 
the boy..."

There was a long pause and silence save for the crackling of a fire. 
Ciaran could see nothing and couldn't move. The pain in his muscles 
wracked him. Then therecame the king's voice again. Cairan forced his 
head to turn enough to make out their features.

"He just earned himself a chance to become a Red Branch Knight.... and 
I think the Hound here," he said with a motion of his thumb to Seatanta, 
"actually likes the boy."

=======================================================
=

The dawn had come early....

There was no light yet, but the armies were taking to the field. There was 
an anxiety that forced the time of this affair. Thus dawn was near 
enough for any to care. The horses stepped and snorted and jockeyed 
the chariots back and forth. The spearmen paced nervously, anxiously.... 
and all the while, so did the other side's forces.

The Red Branch banners flew with those of Conor Mac Nessa, while 
Lughaid of Munster's battle standards fluttered beside those of Fergus 
Mac Roy of Connaught. The wind was chill and moist, but that was 
nothing new. The fever would be upon them soon and the heat and fury 
of a battle would displace all connection to the real world.

And they gathered and waited. Prepared and positioned themselves. 
The challenges would soon be addressed and if Fergus had any man 
brave enough to face the Dreaded Hound of Ulster... soon would be the 
time. But the wheel moved as it willed and time was a fickle mistress. 
Moments could take hours and hours seemed to be days. Perhaps an 
eternity was spent as a creeping ray of light was sought above the  
treeline at Murthemney Plain.

This battle was to be no different in concept and form and Ciaran had 
fought so many now. So, why would the warrior of the Red Branch 
Knights feel such an unease and pall about this battle? The wind bit 
deeper into him than any other, he felt. The seeress was seldom wrong 
and Ciaran only marked time. Soon... it would all be over... for she was 
seldom wrong. These thoughts ravaged his mind and dimmed his 
concentration. So many men had fallen before his blade and spear, and 
he never giving cause to any thoughts of his own demise. He was good 
and it would have been his destiny he felt to command the Red Branch. 
He was young and second only to Seatanta in prowess. The Hound had 
taught him the crafts of war and shown him the strength of the mind. The 
greatest weapon in battle was a man with a strong mind. He was 
invincible and his name was beginning to carry glory with it when spoken 
upon the wind. He was proud and ferocious in battle and yet he now 
knew the meaning of fear. It consumed his thoughts as he dwelled upon 
the prophetic words of the old woman.

"Today it ends and begins... the light of Ulster wanes and your glory 
fades into the same obscured myth. The death is but a beginning and 
yet it shall never be the same. Rejoice now for you will only die once and 
the rest of time is but an eternity in the coming."

It haunted Ciaran all through that day and into the night, and now at the 
coming of the second he was still no more secure. It was now geas upon 
him and would come as surely as did Samhain.

He gritted his teeth and focused his mind. He forced the blood rage to 
take him and thus drive away the maldolorous depression that gnawed 
at his spirit. He focussed his eyes upon the chariot that bore the 
standard of Munster. He would make it his vow and solemn pledge to 
drive Lughaid treachorous soul from the field as he took his lifeblood 
from his body.

Far to the right and close to the middle of the field, Ciaran knew the Erc 
of Leinster would position himself to oppose Cuculhain. He too would 
surely fall. Conall Cearnach of the Red Branch would ride against 
Fergus Mac Roy. And the list of heroes against heroes was greater than 
any telling could detail properly. The plains would bathe in blood this 
morn.

The time of challenges had come and none dared to oppose the 
Champion of Ulster in single combat for the glory of the whole battle. 
They proclaimed that their unity had been foretold to them.... Another 
omen and it rang through Ciaran as deeply as his own.

And thus it began. The standards were raised and mounted upon the 
chariots and the sound to battle was issued. Screams of fury and battle 
crys of pride and honour shattered the morning air as the two awesome 
armies drove at each other. 

It would be nearly an hour of the dawn before Cairan had to dismount 
the chariot and wade into the fray. His spear was broken and his team 
had fallen. He had dispatched two and ten spear men with his horse and 
pike. Now they would feel the fury of his blade. Bas Cuartu'... the Death 
Seeker.... 

Cairan was covered in the dirt and blood and still he fought his way to 
Lughaid. When the two faced each other Ciaran knew that hundreds had 
fallen. He also knew that he was soon to join them. And yet he fought 
on. He knew this was the last man he would face at Murthemney. But it 
was his way. He would face Lughaid and his death as did a Champion 
and Hero.

The battle raged back and forth for a time that defied counting. Cairan 
had no understanding of that which happened about him. His mind dealt 
only with that which was before him. Blood ran from amny wounds and 
Lughaid had more so. Still they fought. The clash of steel rang through 
their bodies and the weariness compelled them to slow. In single combat 
there were few better than Cairan... even at his most tired. But when the 
spear thrust through his chest from behind and he saw the tunic soaking 
with his own blood, he knew his time was at an end. Lughaid had 
betrayed his honor in favor of victory and it was a lesson that Cairan had 
little time to consider. 

He summoned every last element of strength and resolve and thrust his 
blade forward and connected with Lughaid. Lughaid staggered back 
from the attack. The blade pulling free of his shoulder. He was stunned 
that Cairan of Emain Macha could deliver such a blow as he was. 
Lughaid then drove his own sword into the chest of Cairan, who would 
have fallen had not the spearmen held him fast. He collapsed and eyes 
eys closed. There was a darkness and nothing more. The pain was 
wracking but that too quickly subsided. Even the thick salty taste of his 
blood in his mouth was fading. His mind wandered and drifted for a 
moment of time that was perhaps a span of days or minutes... and then it 
was all quiet. The prohecy had come.

=======================================================
======



Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!
Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:
Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;
The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed,
Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold;
And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown old
In dancing, silver-sandalled on the sea,
Sing in their high and lonely melody.
Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate,
I find under the boughs of love and hate,
In all poor foolish things that live a day,
Eternal beauty wandering on her way.

Come near, come near, come near- Ah, leave me still
A little space for the rose-breath to fill!
Lest I no more hear common things that crave;
The weak worm hiding down in its small cave,
And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass;
But seek alone to hear the strange things said
By God to the bright hearts of those long dead,
And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know.
Come near; I would, before my time to go,
Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways:
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.

	-W.B. Yeats, "To the Rose Upon the Rood of Time"

..................................................................

Summer, 20 B.C.

Murthemney Plain, Ulster, Ireland


Keening fills the air, the wails of women mourning for the dead. It 
surprises you a little that you can still hear them so clearly....in your 
imagination, you thought that one might hear the wailing of the still-living 
as you pass on to the Other Side, but shouldn't it be a distant, ethereal 
echo, as of sound coming through a great distance, receding as you 
travel onwards towards that shadowy, half-conceived final destination 
where heroes will meet once more in the afterlife, beneath Arawn's roof? 
Certainly not the full-bodied sobbing that seems to come from your very 
side.

Who won the battle? Were the Connachters driven back, does 
Conchobhar Mac Nessa still live? And what of Seatanta, the Hound of 
Ulster?

Opening one eye, you squint at the woman who keens nearby. Another 
body lies near you. The woman is one you recognize vaguely....a wife of 
one of the other Red Branch warriors, but you can't recall her name. You 
can hear horses and chariots also moving, not far off.

This is no afterlife, this is the Murthemney Plain, and that cannot be, 
because you died there. A man doesn't simply wake up after having a 
spear thrust through him from behind, and a sword through his chest 
from the front. You still remember the pain as the two points drove 
through you, and the taste of blood in your mouth, and the impact as you 
brought your sword down for one final blow against the treacherous 
Lughaid, then the darkness.

Now you taste only evening dew that's settled on you, and there is no 
pain. Neither your chest, nor your limbs which had collected a score of 
lesser wounds, betray any feeling of injury. Is it a miracle, or a trick of 
the mind?

<><><><><>

'I am of Ireland
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on', cried She.
'Come out of charity,
Come dance with me in Ireland.'

One man, one man alone
In that outlandish gear,
One solitary man
Of all that rambled there
Had turned his stately head.
'That is a long way off,
And time runs on,' he said,
'And the night grows rough.'

'I am of Ireland
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on', cried She.
'Come out of charity,
Come dance with me in Ireland.'

-Excerpt from 'I am of Ireland', W.B. Yeats

***************************
Summer 20 BC

Ciaran of Dun Dalgan stared into the sky and paced his breathing to the 
keening wails of the women of the Red Branch. It must have been a 
terrible battle. Who had won? And what of the lovely Deirdre, the cause 
of all this suffering? Had Conor recovered her from the Connaughtmen? 
It was his own rage and jealousy that drove them all headlong into this 
sea of blood and death.

But death had not come. No.... It came alright. Came and went. The 
messenger or harbinger of his fate had been delivered at the end of a 
spear that he saw driven from behind through his chest. The point of the 
steel wet and red with his life's blood. The taste of salt and bile in his 
mouth as Lughaid laughed haunted him, for the man had found a way to 
grab victory from certain defeat. It was a victory without honor... but what 
would that matter now. The sword drove home the the final verse of the 
poem of his end. His fate had been foretold, as surely as he had seen 
the heron in his path.

He looked into the sky, the night sky as it took command from that lords 
of light. And he felt no pain, but didn't dare move. He could see the tears 
in his tunic and the blood, drying on him and his clothes. But he 
breathed and he saw and he heard. Nay this was not an afterlife. It was 
Fey as surely ever there could be one. He had been robbed of his final 
rest and the glory and honor that were due to him as a great Ulsterman 
fallen in combat. He was a Red Branch knight slain, and there was 
honor in that... the The Sidhe had robbed him of that in some fould and 
twisted curse to satisfy some amusement of their own.

Never could he return to his people as he was, for he knew he was 
cursed. The dead do not walk and battle.

Slowly he turned his head to see the nearby woman. So familiar, and yet 
it escaped him. He turned his body to rest on an elbow and to test his 
strength.

He licked his dry lips, for water would be welcome. Surely he lived if he 
thirsted for water. Ale would be better, but water would do.

He looked at the pretty woman, following the gentle curves of her 
shoulders and down to her slender waist, flaring out over her hips as she 
knelt in sobbing fits over another slain warrior. Her long dark hair 
marked her as surely it did him, she was of milesian stock and very 
pretty. Her blue eyes were swollen and red, but as enchanting as any 
sight of a woman that Ciaran could imagine.... and that stirring in him 
told him that he did indeed walk the plane of the living.

"Am I alive," he uttered in a hoarse voice, uncertain of the sound that 
would follow. "AM I ALIVE?"

<><><><><>

[GM]

The woman jumps at the sound of your voice, then turns to look at you, 
blue eyes widening in shock...and fear.

"Y...y...you're ali- you can't be, you're dead! Your wounds...." Trembling, 
she backs away from you, staring at you as if you were some horrible 
apparition rising from the bogs.

You see Red Branch knights moving about, bearing the wounded to 
Conchobhar's druid, who is said to have some healing powers, though 
you've never known him to be able to save a man mortally wounded, as 
you were. In truth you've avoided him when possible; the quiet, grim-
faced mystic makes you nervous, and you're not the only one who is put 
ill at ease by his presence. You see a large number of heads being 
mounted on spears, or dangling by leather cords from the front of Ulster 
chariots. It seems that men from Emain Macha hold the field, so your 
side won the battle.

But whatever contribution you may have made to that victory, you paid 
for it with your life, of that you're certain. You have no right to be sitting 
up and asking questions of the living, and that is exactly how this woman 
feels, as she turns and runs screaming. Warriors look up, and you 
recognize Fergus Muiriallach, one of the king's cousins, and Biorhan 
Mac Cairpre, two men of your company, Fergus with his arm crudely 
wrapped in a sling. Their heads come up at the woman's cry, then their 
gazes settle on you, and their expressions grow still and cold.

<><><><><>

"Come by the hills to the land where fancy is free.
And stand where the peaks meet the sky and the rocks reach the sea. 
Where the rivers run clear and the bracken is gold in the sun.
And the cares of tomorrow must wait till this day is done.

Come by the hills to the land where life is a song.
And sing while the birds fill the air with their joy all day long.
Where the trees sway in time, and even the wind sings in tune,
And cares of tomorrow must wait till this day is done.

Come by the hills to the land where legend remains
Where stories of old stir the heart and may yet come again.
Where the past has been lost and the future is still to be won.
And cares of tomorrow must wait till this day is done.

Come by the hills to the land where fancy is free.
And stand where the peaks meet the sky and the rocks reach the sea.
Where the rivers run clear and the bracken is gold in the sun.
And cares of tomorrow must wait till this day is done."

				-Traditional



Summer of 20 BC on the Murthemney Plain-

She backed away, almost stumbling over herself. Yes the wounds. Dully 
he looked down at the torn tunic that was thickly stained in blood. His 
hands came up of some inborn volition and tore at the fabric. There was 
no pain, no numbness, no anything. The material gave way to reveal his 
powerful upper body. Finely muscled and honed to perfection like the 
edge of his mighty blade 'Bas Cuartu'.... and there were no scars. Plenty 
of blood, but nothing to show him that he had ever been wounded. He 
looked back to the pretty woman, now frightened beyond reason.

Her screams called the attention of others of his host. Aye, Fergus and 
Biorhan.... They would know of the battle and the powerful magics 
worked on him. Aye perhaps it was the druids deed... Yes it must be.

But somewhere in his deep and tortured mind he knew he was trying to 
lie to himself. This was a foul Fey magic.... or worse yet, he had Fey 
blood in his veins. It was said that Seatanta was born of the blood of 
Gods, and that was as it should be, for the Gods had championed the 
rise of the Celts against the Tuath hosts.... time long lost in memory. And 
Seatanta was a hero among all heroes, with a destiny as bright as the 
Alban Heruin sun. But to be born of the Fey, a curse as surely as any 
that could ever condemn a man of the Celts.

Ciaran rose from a kneeling position, his hand instinctively dropping to 
the hilt of his sword, and staggered forward with a few tentative steps. A 
few more and he knew he walked without disability, the sword hanging 
low and point down.

"Aye.... Fergus," he called to the friend, "What boon of gods have I been 
granted and by what deeds am I accorded for such?"

<><><><><>

[GM]

"Deeds?" Fergus asks, in a strained voice. He and Biorhan take a step 
back, almost involuntarily, as you approach. "You fell against Lughaid, 
boy. You fought well, but you were betrayed by a foul blow from 
behind...."

"YOU'RE DEAD!" Biorhan roars. "This is no doing of the gods! A dead 
man walks!" He brandishes his spear at you, but there's no mistaking the 
pallor of his face; Biorhan is as brave as any other warrior, but sorcery is 
something for any man to fear, for what good does a spear or sword 
against a spell?

While the bodies of the slain are being arranged to be borne back to 
Emain Macha, most of the Ulster host seem to be mobilizing to proceed 
onwards, though to where, you can't tell. The battle is over, clearly, and 
as the Red Branch holds the field, you must have won. Yet the 
purposefulness with which the knights of Ulster bind wounds hastily and 
take up unbroken spears to gird themselves for another battle tells you 
that the day's fighting is not yet over. But the enemy, except for their 
dead, is not to be seen.

"This is some trick of the Sidhe," Fergus mutters. "What did Ciaran of 
Emain Macha ever do to anger them, why should such a fate befall him? 
You, shadow or changeling or whatever you be, depart this place! Leave 
our comrade's body to be properly buried."

<><><><><>

Summer, 20 BC, Murthemney Plain, Ulster, Eire

Ciaran stopped as his friend held the spear at the ready. His own grip 
tightened about the blade. He now knew they had seen his demise... he 
obviously knew of it as well. He had seen with his own eyes how life 
drains from a man.... he had felt his slip away. He had died and he could 
not escape the fact that he was fouled by the Fey or gifted by the Gods. 
No wounds, no scars, no pain... and no answers. Just confusion and 
fear.

He stepped back one pace and held his ground. He kept his blade low. 
He couldn't and wouldn't take arms against his brethren and kinsmen.

"Biorhan.... settle my friend..... I have no answers.... but I am Me.... I 
have seen no Sidhe nor do I feel any different.... surely there must be 
some vexation if'n I were possesed of the Fey.... Fergus.... I have known 
you the longest of any save Seatanta himself... You have to be able to 
see with'n your own eyes that it is me.... Help me.... Help me 
understand...."

He paused a moment to look at the warrior knights of the Red Branch. 
The night sky was dappled by stars and a three quarter moon. The pale 
light played about them, and he knew that his own visage was certainly 
similar in the mist from the peat and mosses that made up Murthemney 
plain.

He summoned every ounce of his strength to scream a proclamation of 
his existence.... a Challenge to all to question his existence no more.

"I AM CIARAN..... CIARAN MAC RORY OF EMAIN MACHA.... SON OF 
RORY MAC MORNA.... OF THE CLAN NA MORNA. I WAS BORN 
LEGACY OF THE RED BRANCH KNIGHTS AND I AM A WARRIOR OF 
THE KING OF ULSTER.... LET NONE DOUBT THAT."

The words echoed in his mind as he spoke them to echo across the 
plain itself. He could not fathom his new life and that haunted him with 
doubts, but he was not possessed... he knew that. There was no veil in 
his thoughts or his soul. It was clear and solid. He spoke with his own 
voice and saw with his own eyes... as he always done.

Now surely they would believe him or cast him out... worse, they might 
hunt him... but he had to understand it all and they had to believe he told 
all he knew.

<><><><><>

[GM]

Your Challenge thunders out across the plain, echoing over the green 
grass that is still drinking the blood of the fallen, and reverberating in the 
hills around Murthemney. For a moment you feel as if you are above the 
field gazing down at all who stand there, and at the same time your 
presence is suffused with the flickering shadow-selves of all these men, 
and the wailing women, and the animals great and small, hearts and 
minds pulsing and throbbing as one in a beat that pounds in your ears 
and makes all of Ulster shake in the same circadian rythm, your 
awareness expanding in an ever-greater circle that encompasses 
Murthemney Plain, then the fields and rivers around it, ancient cairns 
leagues away suddenly become flaring pinpoints of light, and farther off, 
on a horizon you cannot see with your naked eye, a collective force 
mightier than anything you could imagine circles the whole world, a 
world that for a moment is wide beyond measuring, stretching away far 
beyond Ireland, beyond neighboring Britain, beyond the continent and 
the wild men you know live there, the world is great and wide beyond 
your imagination, beyond the wildest bardic tales, and you are very, very 
small, just one tiny fragment of this infinite pattern woven of every thing 
that is, living and unliving. Your mind buckles beneath that realization, 
and your head swims. Your knees shake and once more you are just a 
man, standing with sword in hand, on Murthemney Plain.

You're no longer tapped into whatever force it was that momentarily 
elevated your senses to godlike levels....but that all-enveloping 
sensation is replaced by a new one, finite and directional, drawing your 
attention to it as it flares in your minds eye. Electricity arcs up and down 
your spine, and the back of your neck crawls, telling you something is 
near which is dangerous and powerful.

As the concave plain slopes up to crest a grassy ridge, far off, outside 
the perimeter of the recent battle, wind stirs in the tall grass, and there 
on the skyline is a lone figure. It is this figure which has riveted your 
attention, her presence that sends invisible waves of alarm crashing 
against you.

Far off she is, but you see long grey hair like spun iron whipping past 
her face, eyes so intense that you can feel her gaze upon you even at 
this distance. A dull grey cloak wraps around the shapeless body, 
flapping in the breeze, and she clutches a staff- no, a spear- in one 
scrawny arm, but you feel reluctant to assume her weak, no matter that 
her arm appears emaciated and she appears older than old...by means 
you cannot fathom, you know this is someone to respect, even to fear. 
Power surrounds her, power and age and other things you can't 
separate, with your newborn awareness, and aren't sure you want to. 
But a chill settles over you, and supernatural dread clutches at your 
heart.

Biorhan and Fergus stand paralyzed, and though you know they must 
not have felt what you did earlier, they stare now at the terrible woman at 
the edge of the plain, and you know they see her.

And then she is gone.

Long moments pass. Then your two comrades look back at you.

"Ciaran Mac Rory of Emain Macha," Fergus croaks. "I believe you are 
who you say you are. But these things we see are strange, and I think 
you are not the same."

"I think," Biorhan murmers, "it would be well for you to go, for everyone 
knows that you fell in battle against Lughaid, and it is not seeming for a 
dead man to walk among his comrades. You will make the men of Ulster 
fear you have brought an enchantment with you. We know not under 
what geas you may have returned from the Underworld."

<><><><><>

Emotions whirl in Ciaran's head and heart. Emotions tearing at his soul. 
Sadness and anger for knowing that his friends speak the truth. He must 
leave. A relief and a sense of contentment that his friends believed him, 
even beyond the scope of their fear, the very same fear he knew he had 
of himself. There was a rage of injustice for what the Fey curse had 
turned his life into.... robbed of a hero's death, forced to walk the earth 
as an exile, for however long they played their game with his soul. There 
would never be tales written of his glory. His legacy was at an end.

His mind could not escape the vision of the woman on the ridge. She 
knew him... or of him. Was she Fey? It mattered not, she had answers. 
She was ancient and powerful.... in a way he couldn't quite grasp. But, 
the tingling and electrical feeling he had when she appeared told him 
that she knew he was there and that she had come to that place to see 
him.

Hie eyes drifted to that place on the ridge again. He turned to face his 
friends one last time. He spoke, and it was almost traditional words of 
parting that he said to them.

"I ask this of you before I go... please consider it with your hearts, as a 
fellow warrior of the Red Branch would for another of the kind. 
Remember me in your hearts as I once was, before the Fey cursed me 
with this life of exile..... Spread this not to the bards and spare me any 
satire and shame. And of the last.... Repay the scurilous cur that be 
Lughaid, his treachery is without honor, and strike a blow for me, the 
one the cleaves his head from shoulder. Let him be forever known as a 
man without honor. I go now my friends and I think we'll never cross 
paths again. It is with sorrow that I commit your memories to my soul and 
forever remember you all with fondness............Caed Mile' Failte for all 
that we once were."

He sheathed his blade across his back, and picked up his Gae Bulga 
spear. He then started off in the direction of the ridge, heading directly 
for where the woman had stood. He knew not if he would find her again, 
but he would look. He needed to understand who he had become, if he 
was not who he once been. And the memory of the feeling about her 
presence filled his mind though it was only his memory replaying the 
scene for him. 

He had fear, but he was strong... he was a knight of the Red Branch... 
and fears were dealt with head on. He wended his way through the field 
and the bodies. He spoke no further words to any and barely recognized 
their existence. This was not his place now... he had set out to find his 
place.

He reached the ridge and looked about him, with a last look behind him 
to Murthemney and his kin.... he then turned his back on the past and 
set off again.

<><><><><>

[GM]

"Aye," Fergus says heavily, "we will remember you, Ciaran. May you find 
your path guided, for you go somewhere no man may follow, I believe." 
They watch silently as you move away.

The ridge where the old woman stood is empty now. You can glance 
back and look over Murthemney Plain, and notice that very little of 
Conchobhar Mac Nessa's army still remains there. In fact, Fergus and 
Biorhan appear to be the only Red Branch knights still standing there. 
Most of the others who are moving about, and not lying wounded or 
dead, are women, and old men and children. Collecting spoils, and 
gathering the dead. Your two comrades must have pulled "funeral 
guard" detail, making sure no enemies sneak back to defile the bodies of 
your slain, making off with their heads. But where did the rest of the Red 
Branch go?"

It is hard to force yourself to accept that wherever they have gone is no 
longer your place. You long with all your heart to rejoin your comrades. 
But what Biorhan said is true. You know you fell, a spear went through 
your very heart, and they know it too. However the sidhe accomplished 
this trick, of bringing you back to life, you are a marked man, you cannot 
simply go on with your old life and expect everything to be the same. 
People will always look at you....like Fergus and Biorhan did.

There is no sign of that strange apparition, and if not for the fact that the 
other two warriors saw her too, you would question whether it might not 
have been some vision, induced by whatever madness or magic has 
seized you.

<><><><><>

Exile- 20 BC,  Northern Eire

"Aye then Fey lass," Ciaran McRory muttered, "You came to the ridge 
with some purpose in mind. I think I'll play the game for a brief span."

He knelt down to examine the area where she had stood. He had hunted 
but was certainly no great tracker. He paused a moment to collect his 
thoughts and found himself thinking on the feeling he had when she 
appeared. 

*How to use that,* he thought. 

He resolved to keep the feeling close to his memory. It wouldn't be 
difficult. It was the most disconcerting thing he had ever felt save for a 
spear thrust through his chest.


He set out to descend the ridge in the direction he felt would be her best 
path. No matter the truth, it was something to do. He needed to put 
Murthemney behind him in both body and spirit.

He knew that if his resolve wavered in his quest for the truth behind this 
Fey curse, he would likely be led astray and forever lost.

And time passed and he felt no closer. But she saw him. She made her 
way up to that spot so that she could see him. There was much more to 
her appearance than chance would ever allow. 

He stopped in his tracks and looked about him. Dawn was fast 
approaching and the mists rose about him from the marshy woodlands. 
He gripped his spear tightly in the left.

"Aye, then....," he called out into the night. His voice deep and 
commanding. "I have come to seek you out as you did me, but this game 
of chase grows tiring. I am Ciaran McRory of the Clan Na Morna. And I 
seek the answers for which you already know the questions."  

His voice echoed into the waning night. Eerie silence followed as he 
turned in a circle. Looking, listening, and feeling for anything that would 
tell him that she was indeed near him.

<><><><><>

[GM]

As you expected, you haven't the tracking skills to find signs of her 
passage, if she even left any. So you pick a direction and walk it.

The shadows lengthen, and finally at sundown you issue another 
challenge into the darkening woods.

But there is no reply, and you feel rather foolish. It's getting cold, and 
you're tired, and hungry.

<><><><><>

In Exile- 20BC in Eire

Ciaran could live off the land. But he walked until he was unsure of what 
to do next. Walking seemed pointless. Standing still was no better. It 
amounted to nothing. He was nothing. No.......

He was a warrior. A dead one at that. A dead one who still walked. He 
could not escape the mood. There were no tales to tell to anyone. No 
ales to be drunk. No women to be bedded. And no bards to compose hte 
deeds to legend.

He was alone.... terribly alone and without a clue as to what his future 
held. Slowly but steadily his confidence waned as the sun settled 
beneath the treeline. He felt the edge of weeping slipping up on him and 
fought it with the resolution that his pride would not allow him that.

He had a little time before the sun fully set. He cut some ferns and 
bundled them. They would serve as best he could manage for the want 
of a quilt. He then set about to get some water and a few berries. That 
would have to hold him. He hadn't the time to make some snares for 
hare... not tonight. He would probably move on tomorrow. He needed 
better shelter... and he knew of a place. 

It was still further to the east from here. No one would bother him there 
either. It was a place where man feared to wander. It was a place so 
ancient that it was likely sidhe in origin. It was considered holy by all, for 
the mysterious druids seemed to understand the use of the stones. But 
even they didn't come to place often. And when they did, they wandered 
little, directing their attention to the great stones. They performed their 
holy rites and moved on. It was not a place for humans. And he knew he 
wasn't human.  He was a dead man. The walking dead. And others 
would know it as well, he had a reputation once... but word would spread 
quickly that he had fallen. This place would give him the sactaury he 
needed to think.

He had gathered some mulberry and blackberry in a broadleaf. He made 
a few pouches like this, and even ate directly from the bushes as he did 
so.

The water was cool and refreshing. But he had nothing to store it. That 
had all been left on the fields of Murthemney. A rabbit or two would 
afford him a couple of skins to make a bag. 

He sighed at the plans he made... once these plans would have been 
heroic... and they would be about war and women... heads taken and 
beds shared. Friendship and ale in the warmth and comfort of the 
Dunn... with companions and kin. Music and talk... dancing and loving. 
All that replaced by plans made to stay alive.

To what end? He returned to the place where he planned to sleep for 
the night. He felt lonely. Even a fire would comfort him some, but things 
were wet now with dusk and night falling. He would have to be prepared 
the next day.

He laid his Gae Bulga spear nearby him. He loosed the peace knot 
about the hilt of his sword and rested it in his lap. At the left he laid his 
knife. He was certain that he would not become the meal of some 
wandering beast in the woodlands this night. And he did then think of the 
possibility of some wandering rogue. He had to trust in his own abilities 
a warrior to tell when he was in danger, and hope that he could stir from 
sleep in time to do something about it.

He stared through the canopy of trees upwards into the night time skies. 
The stars themselves. So distant and lonely. They were the last of what 
remained of the ancient wandering children of Danu.... all those who 
never made the great journeys foretold to them before they would find 
their home here.

And he felt their coldness and silence... felt their loneliness and it was 
part of him. He shared in that with them. And he closed his eyes.

<><><><><>

[GM]

And sleeping, you dream....

The grey-haired woman with eyes as old as the hills stands above you, a 
starless sky behind her. She holds her great spear in a hand that shows 
a spidery network of veins beneath thin, aged skin- it is a spear that 
many strong warriors would have difficulty wielding, yet this old woman 
hefts it as lightly as you do yours, perhaps moreso. Its name is written 
on the blade in runes that have no meaning to you. The shuddering 
sensation from last time goes down your spine again, and her eyes 
blaze down at you fiercely.

"Tired....tired....tired....fool!" she spats. "Not a whole day and a night 
have you searched for these answers you deem so important, to which 
you think you have a right, yet you say you are tired? Hahahahahaha!" 
Her manner abruptly changes from sardonic ire to mirth; she throws 
back her head and laughs. "You do not know what tired is. Tired is 
walking the width and breadth of Eire a hundred times and a hundred 
times again...tired is swimming the oceans....tired is climbing mountains 
the height of which you cannot imagine, in lands where ice and snow 
never melts. Tired is walking across blazing hot deserts so vast that all 
of Ulster could be dropped into that desert and disappear, where no 
living thing is to be seen from horizon to horizon. Tell ME how tired you 
are, young-man-who-just-died-and-now-you're-tired-because-you-
walked-for-a-day!" Her voice rises and falls in a cadence that is 
hypnotic; her lyric sarcasm conveys all the sharpest edges of a bard's 
wit.

A patch of darkness in the sky above her grows wings and descends to 
her shoulder with a screech, becoming a large raven.

Despite everything you've already experienced, this woman fills you with 
supernatural dread. To call her "fey" is to make light of her true nature; 
you have never truly met one of the Sidhe, but if she is truly a 
representative of that race, then they must be fiercer and more terrifying 
than even the most blood-soaked legends of the Firbolg wars. Here is a 
woman who could make a Formorian turn tail and run in terror with just 
one glance from her flashing dark eyes.

She shakes her head. "Tell me my name, and you will have a gift. 
Perhaps you are wiser than Cuculainn, though I am making it easy for 
you!" She cackles, showing teeth which are strong and white, and not 
one missing, despite her age.

<><><><><>

20BC... A dream within a nightmare!

And his own sleep betrayed him. Had he been awake, his keen senses 
would have told him he was in danger, but this dream was too real... too 
vivid. It had to be real, but how could he have allowed anyone to get that 
close.... he was a warrior, and good one... he knew in his heart that he 
was good... but not good enough. She had him held within his own mind, 
or in the plain of the night... he could not tell what state he was truly in.... 
He had slept, but now felt awake... but there was no transition betwixt 
the two.

Ancient... power... he feared her... but not for any reason he understood. 
Story and legend... Whispered pledges and prayers... and loudly spoken 
as a conviction of the righteousness of purpose. She had a name... and 
she taunted him to guess it... What game was this... And this Gift? What 
would be her gift? She knew Seatanta... she spoke poorly of him... He 
looked up to the man, his first true teacher of the arts military. But she 
knew him in ways he could never hope to, nor even understand his own 
lack of same. His mind raced until he could think of nothing else, and 
even that began to obscure in chaos.

And in that waking dream of reality upon sleep, he spoke. He spoke 
slowly and calmly. To try and belie his true feelings. He reached deep 
for strength to face her head-on and hold his place before her.

"You came to that ridge to see Cuculhain," he stated with a matter of fact 
purpose to his voice. He then fixed his eyes on hers and stared deeply, 
as deeply as courage would allow him. He was a true son of Eire... a 
warrior, and custom said this was how this should happen.

"Not me, but you noticed me... in the way I noticed you... You were the 
watcher woman that he told me of years ago..... How he could not have 
seen this though..... how he could not have believed. I see it, and know it 
to be true."

He paused and continued. He looked into the eyes of the greatest 
warrior ever to set foot upon Eire... Fiercer than Dagda, smarter that 
Nuada and Lugh Lamfada together. Manannan McLir never held the 
respect that she commanded. Tuath or Goddess? It didn't really 
matter......

He steeled himself to give his answer... he knew the name, but the 
knowledge only furthered his dread. He berated himself for having had 
the temerity to try and track her. Had he known, would he have 
followed? Probably.... Maybe....

"You are Morrigan......." 

<><><><><>

[GM]

The terrible Morrigan grins.

"Here is my gift, Ciaran Mac Rory of Emain Macha, but remember the 
gifts of the Morrigan are doubled-edged things. Before you accept it, I 
give you one warning; *never* trust a woman!" She cackles with 
laughter, before fading from your dream.

You wake to cold grey fog, as the sun begins casting light from below 
the edge of the world, before it rises into sight.

Though this haunted place you chose is tranquil and lent a sense of 
peace to your refuge, something pricks at the nape of your neck 
immediately. A foreboding, much like that when you saw the Morrigan, 
the first and second time.

With a start, you realize that the stones around you are dripping blood.

With supernatural dread, you rise to your feet, and then see the source 
of the blood, as a dead hand hangs over the edge of one of the stones. 
It seems a desecration of this ancient place to lay corpses over table-
stones that some say were placed by the gods before men came to Eire, 
but someone has done just that. Half a dozen men of Connacht, impaled 
through the chest, were slain and tossed onto the rock slabs around 
you, while you were asleep.

"You slept well?" asks a female voice, with a touch of sarcasm. You whirl 
around and see a woman who was not there a moment ago. But she is 
clearly the source of your foreboding. Like the Morrigan, something 
about her sends electric tingles down your spine.

This woman has a fierce expression, but not as fierce as Morrigan, and 
her face is softer by far. She is young, your age or perhaps a few years 
older. Bright red hair is tied, unbraided, behind her back, and she wears 
a loose sleeveless dress that ends at her knees. Full-figured, a fact 
which is only barely obscured by her dress, her arms and legs and face 
are sun-darkened and unadorned. Young and healthy and strong, and 
whatever curse has been laid upon you, you sense it is on her as well. 
You wouldn't call this woman "fair", exactly, but neither is she ugly, and 
something more primal than mere femininity radiates from her, answered 
by a stirring in your own soul.

She holds a spear as large as yours, and leans on it casually. You see 
dried blood congealed on the iron point.

<><><><><>

The Fenian exchanged the sword to his left hand and leaned forward to 
pick up the heavy spear, never taking his eyes off of the woman.

*How could she have come up on me so quickly.... Am I losing my 
senses... am I losing my ability to know my surroundings and defend 
myself... she could have killed me at any time... What happened to the 
Morrigan... What kind of dream was it and what is this then? What is this 
Gift... and what is meant by never trusting women... An omen.... a 
portent... And a woman stood before me... and what if this aspect was 
but another of the Morrigan's. She might have come to me as the crone 
then... as death. But she might now be the warrior. It seemed 
appropriate and right... but it haunts me.... How many others were there 
in this world who could visit upon me such a terrible sensation and 
apprehension? And why do I feel so much a part of these two or one or 
whatever... Am I kin?* 

His thoughts went unspoken. *Never trust a woman.* The crone had told 
him this.... she might still stand before him... but he felt it was only right 
to heed her warning... the prophetic words of a Goddess were not 
something discarded so lightly.

His eyes regarded the woman, appraisingly, but his hands were ever so 
ready for any move she might make. He had every intention of gutting 
her if she made to attack. It was an uneasy moment for him. She had an 
advantage... she knewwhat she was doing here and she knew how this 
scene had become. She likely knew a great deal. He knew nothing.

"My sleep was well enough, if not for a troubling dream... but I see that I 
have slept through some terrible conflict... I do not know the 
circumstances of the deaths of these men, but your spear tells me they 
died at your hands... I am Ciaran McRory of the Clan na Morna, a fianna 
warrior of Ulster... May I have the honor of your own name or are you the 
Morrigan before me still?"

<><><><><>

[GM]

The warrior woman smiles enigmatically. "The Morrigan?" She chuckles, 
a harsh sound. "Let me tell you something about the Morrigan, Ciaran 
McRory of the Clan na Morna. She's lived far too long and she's more 
than half mad. If I were you, I'd take little comfort in the fact that she 
seems to have taken a fancy to you."

She looks at your sword. "Firstly, if I meant to kill you, I'd have done so 
in your sleep. Secondly, do you not sense the sanctity of this place? You 
chose it, after all." She flips her spear around in a blur and thrusts it into 
the ground, point-first. "No fighting on holy ground. That is a rule that not 
even the Morrigan will violate." She gestures at the dead men. "Aye, I 
slew them, but not here. They were riding to this place in search of you, 
and did not listen when I told them to ride elsewhere. Maybe these will 
discourage others from following, for a while."

She stands with her hands on her hips, looking you up and down 
appraisingly, and not at all concerned with the sword you still hold at the 
ready. "As for my name, you can call me Scathach."

<><><><><>

The Fenian stood weapon at the ready and the Morrigan's words 
running through his mind. *Never Trust a Woman*

"I take little comfort in a great deal of things at this moment..."

He looked as if to say more, but stopped, eyes narrowing and 
calculating. Judging his options and gauging her as a potential 
opponent. With all the bodies about, anything could be likely.

*Fast, very fast....*

And yes he had felt this was a good place... but it didn't mean much... he 
knew it was a holy place... 

*Was I drawn to it?*

He continued to listen as she continued to speak.

Aye, he knew the name (Pronounced  Sca-hah or Skya), the great 
warrior maiden from Alba... Perhaps pictish or a Celt cousin... but not 
originally of Erin, or so it was told. No matter, she was one of the best, 
and Seatanta had learned from her... quite a number of years ago. He 
remembered his friend telling of the perilous journey... and her 
demanding regimen. And her comely appearance. *She was certainly 
that,* he mused as she returned the appraising look. 

He planted the spear without regard for trying to best the woman's 
display... it wasn't what he needed from her. He then lowered his steel. 
That is until the point touched the earth and he leaned it outwards to the 
length of his arm.

When he spoke he formed his thoughts carefully and spoke them in one 
piece, lest she interupt him and break his concentration. His voice was 
soft and lyrical. His eyes never wavered from hers. His expression was 
of calm confidence, yet he was scared. 

"Holy ground.... and there is a rule.... if there is a rule... there must be a 
contest... or a battle.... and more rules... and we are players... I am 
new... you are not... and the Morrigan is certainly not new to this... What 
sorcery has brought this about, to make me like this? What others are 
there that play this contest... And If I am to be a player, then how do I 
win? Lastly, If I am to have any chance at all... I need to learn... and if 
you would have me, I would learn from you.... Your name carries honor 
and respect, and I would learn much... and hope to be a good 
student...."

<><><><><>

[GM]

Scathach laughs. "Well, aren't you the eager student!" You've been 
having quite a lot of women laughing at you lately, and you don't much 
like it.

"Yes, there are indeed rules, Ciaran McRory, and there is a Contest, too. 
There's one question of yours that I can't answer, though, and that's how 
you came to be like this. One of us."

For a moment her expression becomes more serious, and you even see 
a hint of sadness in her eyes. "I don't know. None of us knows. I'm pretty 
sure that not even the Morrigan could answer that question, even if she 
wanted to. There are, or were, immortals even older than her, and from 
what little she's told me of her own teaching, I think even *they* didn't 
know."

Her eyes are distant and unfocused, for only a second, then they're 
sharply regarding you once more. "That's what you are, Ciaran McRory. 
Immortal. Don't look for rhyme or reason, you'll go mad asking yourself 
'Why me?' It just happens, once in a dozen generations or so, and it's 
happened to you. You will not age, and you will never die by normal 
means, though you'll feel all the pain that mortal men do."

"Let's be clear on another thing, too. I am not your friend, any more than 
I was Cuculainn's. I'll teach you for reasons that are my own, just as I 
taught Cuculainn, but once you've learned all that I can teach you, you'll 
go your own way, and if we meet again..." She grins. "I just may take 
your head."

<><><><><>

[Fenian is the term given to the Fianna Clan Warriors.

The Fianna existed approximately 100BC to 600AD. The Great Clans 
trained and cultivated their warrior traditions and became considered 
elite warriors, even to the jealousy of the High Kings whom they were 
pledged to serve. 

The Red Branch Knights drew warriors from the Fianna Clans as this 
was an honor above all others of the time. 

Na Morna, Na Baiscne, and others were clans/ families of Great 
Warriors.

The Fianna came to its high point in history, legend or whatever in the 
3rd century ad... Finn McCumhal's time.

The term Fenian later came to be a symbolic name for patriotic warriors 
of Ireland in their bid for freedom... from the 17th through modern 
times...

It has also been adopted by a modern day political party... Fianna Fialle.]

He lets her barb pass. He smiled as she spoke of the women who 
laughed, for it was humorous. She had a scathing wit that merited 
respect.

"I do not believe I ever called you friend... and I am not doing so now. 
But I am a bright boy... and I can deduce that Seatanta was an 
Immortal."

The last word stuck in his mouth with an obvious distaste.

He continued.

"My head... another rule... that is where it ends... we can not die by 
normal means... but you can take my head, or I yours. And our history is 
blurred and obscured in time... but we are bound to each other... in the 
very way I knew the Morrigan was near, and the very feeling you and I 
both get when we are close... and I thought that was just a sexual 
attraction," he said with a laugh. 

His tone was humorous, and he began to feel the confidence returning. 
She knew more than he, but she too had questions.

"And this is just to be... I'll not go mad... it is the will of Danu or of 
another, and that suffices... For I believe you don't have the answer. I 
will learn all that you offer, and we will part company... you are correct."

He moved closely to her, very close. Eyes holding hers, he leaned 
forward to kiss her fully on the mouth.

An inch away, "But you'll find this head does not come easily."

He waited for her reaction, sure it was to be violent, and he would be 
ready if that came.

*Never Trust a Woman*

<><><><><>

[GM]

Scathach holds your gaze, steadily. You know that she knows exactly 
what you're going to do, but she makes no move to fend you off.

She meets your kiss with a force equal to your own, lips locked with 
yours, letting passion engulf you for long moments. Her hands grasp 
your shoulders, one runs through your hair.

As your hands move to encircle her, though, she suddenly thrusts you 
away and tries to knee you in the groin. But her foot slips.

You don't get a chance to take advantage of her fumble; her fist moves 
in a flash, cracking into your jaw and sending you spinning to the 
ground, more stunned than injured. It was a solid blow, though, as heavy 
as any a man might have dealt.

Scathach takes two cautious steps backwards away from you, grimacing 
and shaking her hand. "Crap! I'm getting soft." She looks down at you, 
irritation mixing with amusement. "But you got lucky, Ciaran. That was 
the oldest trick there is, and if I hadn't let myself get off balance, you'd 
be wheezing high notes right now. What did you think, one kiss and I'd 
be enraptured by your manly charms?"

She turns and walks back to her spear, plucking it out of the ground. 
"Let's get something straight, lad. I'm old enough to be your great-
grandmother's great-grandmother. You're a pleasant enough lad, and 
*maybe* I'll decide I feel like a roll in the heather with a youngster. But 
put any thought of seducing me right out of your head, wild buck. I've 
never met a man who wasn't as transparent as the breeze when your 
thinking moves below your belt."

"Now gather your things and follow me. We can't stay here."

<><><><><>

<Ciaran McRory, 20BC, Leaving Holy Ground>

Ciaran sat on the ground for a moment and rubbed his jaw, and smiled 
at the woman.... a knowing smile.

"Aye, young I am... transparent perhaps... but there are many layers to 
any action... And lessons taught when one isn't teaching... I caused you 
to react... and I learned from you Scathach... I learned a reference for 
your age... and I learned that Holy Ground, or the thought there of, did 
not prevent you from knocking me on my arse... but perhaps it is only a 
convention to keep us from killing one another. That remains to be 
seen.... But it is important to know that early on."

Ciaran stood carefully. He knew he was baiting her to a degree. He had 
learned that when her emotions were up, she revealed things that she 
probably wouldn't do otherwise. But it was a very dangerous game that. 
He wanted her to know that he was one man, while he enjoyed the life 
'below the belt', he wasn't governed by it. He was a tactician and a 
warrior, not a lusty barbarian Fomor... He was a Fenian warrior and a 
Red Branch Knight... no matter the fact he had died and been exiled.

He gathered the few meager possessions he had. Sheathed his blade 
upon his back and carried his Gae Bulga... ever ready to defend himself 
against her. Oh he would follow alright... And soon they would leave 
Holy Ground... He had no idea what would come next....

He walked on bhind her, finally speaking again.

"It was an awful long journey from your island along the coast of Alba to 
be here with me... and I know that you said that it was for reasons 
personal... but they must be of great consequence... And I'll not pry... but 
if you would, answer me this on your honor as a warrior... Do your aims 
meet with those of the Morrigan, and are they meant to benefit me in any 
way?"

He waited on the answer. And it would be much later when he asked his 
next questions.

"You never did answer one of my questions.... so I'll rephrase it. This 
contest must have a goal, or else it wouldn't be a contest... what drives 
us forward to the challenge... Why do we do this thing, taking the heads 
of one another... And how do I win?"

<><><><><>

[GM]

Scathach shakes her head, and raises her hands imploringly to the sky. 
"Oh, aren't you clever? Gods, methinks the boy fancies himself a bard, 
he's so witty! All right, so you learned a little more from that cuff, did 
you? You're right, the rule of holy ground is perhaps somewhat open to 
interpretation. By tradition, one does not seek to do violence to another 
immortal on holy ground, and that includes forcibly dragging them off so 
you can kill them with impunity. But obviously I was not really trying to 
harm you, so I took a little liberty with the ban."

You notice as you walk that she's subtly slowing her pace and moving to 
the side, so you're no longer directly behind her, but within her 
peripheral vision.

"There is one very good reason for the ban; we are a deadly race, but at 
times everyone has need of sanctuary, whether to rest or to be able to 
treat with one another without fear of betrayal. So the rule was 
established that holy ground is safe ground, and even your worst enemy 
must not be attacked there. Any immortal who violates that rule will 
never again be safe on holy ground himself, and many of us will make it 
a point to hunt such a violator down."

"But, it is not just tradition. You noticed that you actually sensed 
something while we stood within the stone circle? Places where mortals 
gather in worship become places of power, that we can sense. Even if it 
is a place of worship to alien gods, you will still sense the sanctity of the 
place, and it must be respected."

"That sense is part of the Quickening, the way in which we immortals 
can perceive the world on a level that mortals cannot. And the 
Quickening is a powerful thing. Now, I might have been able to get away 
with smacking you on the chin while we were on holy ground...but if I 
were to actually draw blood, let alone take your head....it would surely 
stir the quickening that bides within that place. Frankly, I do not know 
precisely what the result would be, because I am not about to try to find 
out. According to legend, the one who committed the sacrilege will suffer 
a dire fate. Death, cursed by the gods, stripped of your immortality? I do 
not know. But the legends and the quickening all of us can sense is 
enough to dissuade anyone but a lunatic from daring to test it."

>>>"It was an awful long journey from your island along the coast of 
Alba to be here with me... and I know that you said that it was for 
reasons personal... but they must be of great consequence... And I'll not 
pry... but if you would, answer me this on your honor as a warrior... Do 
your aims meet with those of the Morrigan, and are they meant to benefit 
me in any way?"<<<

She scoffs. "On my honor as a warrior? Don't try to place a geas on me, 
boy. If I choose to answer your questions, I'll answer as I see fit, and you 
can accept my answer or not as you will."

"Whether my aims meet with those of the Morrigan I cannot say, 
because I would never try to guess what her aims are. I told you, she's 
half-mad. And whether they benefit you depends on how beneficial you 
think the Morrigan's good-will is." She grins. "I am telling you much of 
what you need to know, now that you are an immortal, am I not? So 
certainly that benefits you. But then, I could be lying. Not only are we a 
deadly race, but we are quite devious as well. Those of us who live long 
enough to learn deviousness, that is."

She seems to like baiting you, much as you are baiting her.

>>>"You never did answer one of my questions.... so I'll rephrase it. This 
contest must have a goal, or else it wouldn't be a contest... what drives 
us forward to the challenge... Why do we do this thing, taking the heads 
of one another... And how do I win?"<<<

Scathach sighs. "You just entered the contest, you don't know the rules, 
and already you fancy yourself to be The One? Well, you certainly don't 
lack ambition. How do you win? You kill every last immortal in the world, 
until you are the only one left. There can be only one, or so the legend 
says."

She spins about and faces you. "How about it, Ciaran? If you're so eager 
to take on the challenge, care to start with me?"

Her voice doesn't shift in quality at all, still light and teasing. But her 
expression is serious, and her grip on her spear is firm, her stance tense 
and ready.

<><><><><>

<Ciaran McRory... The Fenian>

*Immortals... many... a race of them.... us... The Quickening... a aprt of 
us... a aprt of many things... our strength, our power... What power? 
Immortal... I am immortal? *

*I am immortal. There can be only one.*

And the thoughts flooded his mind as she spoke her words. He was not 
oblivious to the fact that she played his game as well... it amused them 
both... He liked the woman.

*Never Trust a Woman*

That is what the Morrigan had told him, and then this one had shown 
up... and if she was who she said she was, then she was dangerous... 
and if not... she could be much worse.

When she adjusted her pace and stride and fell in step along side of 
him, he knew she didn't trust him at her back... then again, perhaps it 
was as he was meant to perceive it. Perhaps, she was preparing to 
strike him down.

>>>She spins about and faces you.<<<

Her sudden movement was almost enough to take him off guard. It 
probably would have if he hadn't been so apprehensive about her 
motives.

>>>"How about it, Ciaran? If you're so eager to take on the challenge, 
care to start with me?"

Her voice doesn't shift in quality at all, still light and teasing. But her 
expression is serious, and her grip on her spear is firm, her stance tense 
and ready.<<<

He then stepped lively, as if he were at a Ceili with his girl... he executed 
the Dancing Otter step... a traditional Fiannan maneuver to establish a 
defensive stance against the reach of a spear, when somewhat 
unprepared... It was all reaction.

He held his own weapon low, not raising it. He didn't want to fight, but he 
wasn't going to take a rib thrust peaceably either.... He spoke, slowly 
and as calmly as he could manage. The adrenalin pumping and his 
blood coarsing....

"We both know... I wouldn't survive... You are the better warrior... and I'll 
not be want to take another spear through the chest again so soon... But 
I will not yield to fate, and if you mean to do this thing then I must defend 
myself... I would rather we not, but am ready either way...."

He could sense his fear... calling to him... But he was a warrior and had 
faced death many times before... Why now was it such a driving element 
in his mind, eating at his soul. He banished it with an effort to focus on 
the woman....

*Never Trust a Woman*

His eyes held hers... and a tense moment was at hand........

<><><><><>

[GM]

"Cuculainn was a better warrior, but he died," Scathach snarls. "Do you 
know how many years I spent training him, grooming him....only for him 
to throw his life away in some stupid battle over a damned cow?"

A simplistic explanation of the war between Ulster and Connacht...it 
started with a cattle raid, but everyone knew the raid was a symbolic 
provocation, representing generations of feuds and interkingdom 
rivalries that had finally come to a head.

Not that you have time to reflect on the politics of warfare with 
Scathach's spear whirling over her head.

"I'm not about to waste my time training another gloryhound! I'm 
beginning to think *men* are a waste of immortality! No long-term 
thinking, just rush into battle so the bards will sing *your* name, even if it 
kills you. And in your eagerness to win the contest, you'll die quickly, 
because there are foes out there much more terrible than me, I assure 
you!" Her spear slashes down at your legs.

<><><><><>

Glory.... What glory could he possibly be seeking now... He had been 
cursed... and this witch had told him what it took to kill him.... And what if 
that was a preferrable option than this life in eternity... cursed to live like 
the Sidhe... hidden and skulking... forever at the fringe of the reality of 
the world, for fear of someone discovering you... not understanding or 
not caring... hunting you. And in turn, he wanted to know what it took to 
survive and win against the ones who knew, and would surely hunt him... 
and now she turned on him as well... so be it... death now or later... he 
would die like a warrior... And fight like one for as long as he had left.

She slashed down at his legs, and he set his stance, taking the full of 
the shaft of his spear in his left. He crossed it over, tip first to block and 
brace her slash before it would touch him.  The hooks and barbs of the 
heavy spear waiting to grab hers and hold it fast. He knew this could be 
a feint, and had to deal with that when it came... his stance allowed him 
that opportunity for a roll-out. Being equally skilled with both hands, a 
rare trait and one he hoped Scathah wasn't prepared for, he snapped his 
right fist towards her jaw. No pulled punches. She started this, and he 
would deal with her on the terms she wanted.

"Then you judge me on prejudices all your own Scathah..."

<><><><><>

[GM]

Her spear blade hisses to meet yours-

not quite. With yours held at a downward angle to block, she jerks her 
point back even as it approaches the pinnacle of her swing, so it passes 
in front of your shaft. In the split-second after that, she thrusts it back in. 
The effect is much like running her blade *around* your spear. Instead of 
biting into and through your left leg, the original point of contact had you 
not sought to block her, she carves a chunk out of your right leg, just 
below the knee. You feel burning pain and your lower leg awash in 
blood, and collapse to your good knee.

Having nearly severed your leg, she steps back and watches you calmly, 
leaning on her spear once more.

"Life's a test, boy. And you never know which one'll be the time that I'll 
kill you if you fail. And remember that I can do anything short of cutting 
your head off, as part of your training, so if you don't like pain, you'd best 
be a fast learner."

"Your footwork is good, but you think too much. You were watching my 
blade and not me, and trying to plan a counterattack before you'd even 
stopped the attack. You don't plan what you're going to do *if* you get 
past the next moment; you deal with the moment, then you deal with the 
next. The difference between you and me is when the moment comes, I 
know a hundred things to do without having to think about it. You have 
maybe three or four, and if you're not a good position to use one of 
them, you're dead."

"You've got potential, but you're going to be a much harder student than 
Cuculainn."

She picks up her spear and begins trotting away across the field. "Catch 
up to me when you can," she says over her shoulder. Despite her casual 
gait, she's moving fast, almost at a full sprint.

<><><><><>

He kneeled for an eternity in apin... perhaps a minute before rolling back 
onto his back. His teeth gritted in an attempt to fight of the pain.

Immortal?

He could see spots, and knew he had lost so much blood. He struggled 
to keep conciuosness... and he wasn't sure that he did. It was so much 
pain that everything meant nothing to him. Only the pain.

He gripped his leg, just above the knee. Squeezing as hard as he could. 
The intensity of the new pressure needed to combat the other as a focus 
for his mind. And he squeezed. But, still the blood flowed, and the pain 
triumphed when he felt his mind and focus slipping away.

Pain and Immortality... he could see where his life was headed. And he 
silently cursed the existence before him. Then the one behind him... 
Next was the Morrigan, and lastly was the hagis eating Banh Sidhe 
herself... Scathah.

He did not know how much time had passed when the pain was no 
longer driving him into insanity. It was gone and his eyes opened.

Had he died? 

No telling except for the thick drying blood on him and that pool of it 
beneath him. He looked to the wound, and it was gone except for a 
swelling and redness in the very area that been cut from his body.

Tentatively, he stood. On one leg at first, to test the strength of his bad 
one. There was still no pain as he put weight on it. He stepped and it 
was well and good. He stepped again, then once more.

Setting out in a walk he made for the direction she had left in.

He walked for a short time before increasing to a run. A gentle run.

He carried his spear low in his right and his other belongings in the left. 
Bas Cuarto was still slung across his back, and it timed his counterbeat 
with the same rhythm of his gait.

He knew that she could be close enough to have set his next lesson in 
the form of some trap... but he also knew that he would sense her if she 
was close enough to attack... He knew... He hoped.

He learned. He learned that all the mighty skill of a Fianna trained 
warrior meant nothing against someone with her skill. Her words though. 
She hinted at something deeper in meaning as to why she trained him... 
but he couldn't place it. And the fact that she compared him to Seatanta 
did not sit well with him. He knew that the man was a better warrior than 
he... much more so... but he was also the most arrogant and self 
centered man he knew. And yet was had been a friend.

Ciaran realized that it was this arrogance and overconfidence that got 
Seatanta killed. He felt pretty comfortable with the deduction that he had 
died, and now Scathah trained another. She needed another... and it 
occured to him, that she was doing it for a reason. A gift of training for a 
return of favor...Yes, she needed an ally... maybe not now, but she 
would need one some day. She feared something and that something 
was getting closer to her.

It was then that he resolved to learn whatever she offered and in 
whatever manner she deemed appropriate. He would endure. He had to. 
Life wasn't an easy thing to give up, of free volition.

He continued to run, trying to catch some indication of her passage. 
Trying to prove to himself that he deserved to be alive and worthy of her 
attention. He could feel the subtle change in his attitude, but there was 
little he could do to avoid it... He needed her training to survive. He 
cared not for winning anymore. Survival was enough. One step at a time. 
Learn the present before reaching for the future.

<><><><><>

[GM]

Know, that I would accounted be
True brother of a company
That sang, to sweeten Ireland's wrong,
Ballad and story, rann and song;
Nor be I any less of them,
Because the red-rose-bordered hem
Of her, whose history began
Before God made the angelic clan,
Trails all about the written page.
When Time began to rant and rage
The measure of her flying feet
Made Ireland's heart begin to beat;
And Time bade all his candles flare
To light a measure here and there;
And may the thoughts of Ireland brood
Upon a measured quietude.

Nor may I less be counted one
With Davis, Mangan, Ferguson,
Because, to him who ponders well,
My rhymes more than their rhyming tell
Of things discovered in the deep,
Where only body's laid asleep.
For the elemental creatures go
About my table to and fro,
That hurry from unmeasured mind
To rant and rage in flood and wind;
Yet he who treads in measured ways
May surely barter gaze for gaze.
Man ever journeys on with them
After the red-rose-bordered hem.
Ah, faeries, dancing under the moon,
A Druid land, a Druid tune!

While still I may, I write for you
The love I lived, the dream I knew.
From our birthday, until we die,
Is but the winking of an eye;
And we, our singing and our love,
What measurer Time has lit above,
And all benighted things that go
About my table to and fro,
Are passing on to where may be,
In truth's consuming ecstasy,
No place for love and dream at all;
For God goes by with white footfall.
I cast my heart into my ryhmes,
That you, in the dim coming times,
May know how my heart went with them
After the red-rose-bordered hem.

	-"To Ireland in the Coming Times", W. B. Yeats



Scathach never becomes easier to live with.

That first demonstration of her skills is never forgotten. You learn that 
even the most terrible wounds will heal in a few score heartbeats, but 
you are not completely immune to scarring, and the severed tendons 
and muscles in your knee don't knit together *quite* right....you walk with 
a limp for a week, before you adapt and the pain and soreness is 
eventually forgotten. But for the rest of your days, you feel a twinge in 
your knee before it rains.

The journey to Scathach's island is hellish. She leads you on, always a 
little ways ahead of you, and as you expected, she lays traps for you and 
ambushes you at every opportunity. She is a cunning hunter and wily as 
prey; you never get a chance to turn the tables on her, though you try. 
And in the years to come, you learn that this is Scathach's way; from 
Cuculainn you heard of what a fierce warrior this foreign woman was, 
and she is, but it is not her preference to stand and fight, nose to nose 
and blade against blade, as men do. She uses deception and artifice to 
gain an advantage, making sure the terrain is familiar to her, or the sun 
is in your eyes, or that she is well-rested while her opponent is dead-
tired. Surprise and distance, her favorite weapons. She likes the spear 
because she can keep you at bay more easily than with a sword. And 
always she relies on her phenomenal speed, which you cannot come 
close to matching.

She leads you through icy rivers and misty bogs, and at the coast, 
produces a small boat hidden in a cove that you could have walked by a 
hundred times and never noticed the recess beneath the cliffs where it 
was sheltered.

Her island is off the coast of Alba, in treacherous waters that crash 
against serrated, ship-mangling rocks, hidden in mists that lift only a few 
days a year. However long she's been there, she's made it into a 
fortress from which one woman can hold off an army; her home, built at 
the top of perilous cliffs, can be reached only be climbing straight up 
those cliffs from the sea, or by crossing a deep chasm with only a frail 
rope bridge stretching over the gulf.

She is harsh and relentless, but she's equally fair with praise and 
criticism. She teaches you skill at arms, in the same bloody, brutal 
manner as her first lesson, until the sight of your own guts no longer 
shocks you. You never become inured to the pain, though, and you 
dread her workouts. It takes a long time before you realize that she is 
not being deliberately cruel; she simply doesn't know how to be kind. 
You have to grudgingly admit that her tolerance for pain and blood is 
higher than yours, and she must have learned to survive immortality in a 
harsh environment indeed. So she stabs you and slashes you and 
breaks your bones and rips your muscles, with sword and spear and in 
bare-knuckle brawls, and in this way, you learn somewhat how to fight 
while maimed, how to predict how long it will take for a wound to heal, 
and just what a vicious bitch Scathach has to be to hold her own against 
other immortals. For though she is stronger than you, she's had scores 
of years to become strong, and she's reached the limit of how much 
might can be packed into her healthy but still female frame.

She kills you, too. Repeatedly.

There is not always a distinct sensation when you die; sometimes it's 
hard to tell whether the flowing of blood from a mortal wound carried 
your life away, until your supernatural gift restored it, or whether your 
being immortal kept you alive when a mortal would have bled to death. 
But when she impales you through the throat, or drives her sword blade 
through your ribs to rend your heart and lungs, or smashes your skull 
open, the darkness that follows the horrible shock is always absolute, 
and you 'awaken' with a jolt and a shudder, and weakness and nausea 
that tells you your body has drained itself of all strength in the process of 
coming back to life.

You become better at fighting- how could you not? But Scathach's most 
valuable lessons aren't with sword and spear. You could have wandered 
the land engaging in one battle after another and increased your 
experience that way. Scathach teaches you how to camouflage yourself, 
and your abode; how to move silently and quickly, how to conceal your 
weapons, how to scout the terrain and make sure you have an escape 
route from any battle site, how to misdirect those who are hunting you. 
(The occasional trips across the water, where she leaves you alone for 
weeks in the territory of wild, painted savages whose tracking skills are 
nearly as great at hers, are both challenging and miserable. And you 
can't help feeling a bit sorry for the savages, whom Scathach treats as a 
training exercise and not as human beings who are only defending their 
own territory. You don't have time to empathize with them when they're 
swarming over you, howling and screaming.) The art of hiding offends 
your warrior's sensibilities at first, but Scathach makes you learn.

Eventually there is a day when she invites you into her bed, and it's 
been long enough that you'd be willing even if you hadn't started out 
attracted to her (despite her bloody and decidely unfeminine nature.) 
She's as lusty and accomplished there as she is in combat, but you 
never have any illusions that she's allowing you to become close to her; 
she is your teacher, your mentor, your tormentor, sometimes an ally you 
could not live without and sometimes an enemy you long to kill with all 
your heart. But though you become lovers, she will never allow you to 
become friends.

She tells you about immortal kind, but very little about herself. At the end 
of your time with her, you've learned that Scathach was born on the 
continent, in a land she calls Gaul, and that, not surprisingly, her own 
mentor was the terrible Morrigan herself. How she came to dwell in 
these isles, and what her present relationship is with Morrigan, you 
never know. Scathach speaks of Morrigan with a mixture of respect, 
scorn, and fear, and mentions once that Morrigan told her, during her 
initial training, that that goddess of war remembered a time before 
Britain and Ireland were split. It seems Scathach teaches you much as 
Morrigan taught her, and Morrigan told her protege as little as Scathach 
reveals to you about her own life. One night, when Scathach has been in 
a reasonably good mood, and you've both had a lot to drink and made 
love under the sky, she says "Morrigan did tell me once, that even she 
was not of the first generation of our kind. Her own elders told her 
stories of a time when ice covered the world." Scathach spits into the 
fire. "Probably nonsense. Morrigan was mostly crazy already, when she 
first found me, and I can't imagine how mad anyone older than *her* 
must have been."

Scathach has met other immortals, but few- she avoids others of her 
kind. It doesn't surprise you that she is reclusive by nature, which makes 
her decision to tutor you all the more mysterious. She tells you of a great 
kingdom on the continent, on the other side of a mighty mountain range 
more magnificent than anything to be found in Britain or Ireland, and 
says that there are a handful of immortals who serve or have served 
under the banner of "Roma". And she has killed at least one, avoided 
the others. She hints at other empires, even further to the north and 
east, where other immortals dwell. And though she never says so, you 
come to suspect she avoids Britain south of Alba because of whatever 
immortal(s) might dwell there. But are there any other immortals in 
Ireland, besides herself, you, and Morrigan?

"You are the only surviving man," she says.

Immortals can only die by losing their head. When one immortal slays 
another, their Quickening flows into the body of the victor. "It is a 
tremendous feeling," Scathach says, eyes aglow. "You will not only feel 
yourself strengthened, you will gain many of that person's memories, 
and knowledges." Her eyes narrow. "That's why some of us hunt others 
of our kind. The Morrigan has slain dozens over the centuries....imagine 
how much she knows, how much power she has, with the blood of a 
hundred immortals flowing through her veins."

"Imagine what you'd gain, if you slew the Morrigan."

"According to Morrigan, someday there will be only one of us left. That 
one will gain the accumulated might of every immortal who ever lived. 
From across the world, in every land, from the beginning of time, we 
have lived among mortals, seeing and remembering everything that ever 
happens. Someday we will have hunted one another to near-extinction. 
And when the last two do battle, the victor will be truly a god."

"That's what the Morrigan says anyways, and as I've mentioned before, 
she's half-crazy."

There are only two rules to the battles between you. The first you 
already know; no fighting on holy ground. The only other rule which is 
universally respected is that all duels of immortal against immortal must 
be one on one, face to face. Preferably away from mortal eyes, and once 
an immortal has accepted a challenge, no other immortal may interfere.

When you don't age, and the world around you doesn't change, a great 
deal of time can pass quickly. There are times you despise Scathach, 
and rare indeed are the times you could truly claim to enjoy being on her 
cursed island, subject to her ruthlessly efficient, abusive training. But the 
two of you both become accustomed to one another. Life goes on, day 
after day, week after week. Year after year.

You have truly lost track of time, but are beginning to feel impatient. 
Scathach has little new to teach you nowadays, and though she's still a 
better fighter than you, you've managed to deal her a nasty blow or two 
in your sparring matches often enough that she is reluctant to cross 
swords with you anymore. She is not a coward, but she is cautious, and 
she's trained you well; you are now a potential threat. It makes her edgy, 
and it makes you nervous.

One night, a new star shines in the sky. It's amazingly bright, and you 
stare at it in fascination, as you're sure people must be staring at it 
across Alba, and the lands south, and Ireland, and even across the sea 
and in the wild tribelands on the coast, and in "Roma", wherever that 
might be. It outshines even the moon, brilliant and beautiful, and 
unmistakably an omen of some sort.

Scathach emerges one night, while you stand on the seacliffs looking up 
at the new star, and looks up at it for a while with you.

Finally she says, "I think it's time that you left."

<><><><><>

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight,
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.

Your mother Eire is always young,
Dew ever shining and twilight grey;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.

Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:
For there the mystical brotherhood
Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
And river work out their mystical will;

And God stands winding His lonely horn,
And time and the world are ever in flight;
And love is less kind than the grey twilight,
And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

'Into the Twilight,' W.B. Yeats.

Ciaran stood for a long time just watching that shining star. He had 
known it was time to go... it had been time to go. He said nothing for a 
great while after she said the words he couldn't. His eyes transfixed by 
the beauty of the glowing jewel in the eastern sky.

"Aye," he said finally, "I suppose it is... And I  thank you for everything 
you have given me. And though I'll not likely ever know your reasons, I 
am grateful and am indebted to you. If there ever comes a time you 
would want company of me again, please feel free to seek me, or leave 
me some message and I will seek you. I detest goodbyes, and so I won't 
say one. Until we meet again..."

With those words he turned and walked away from her.

Away from her island.

Away from the past and into a new future.

Ciaran McRory returned to Eire. To wander the lands and loughes. To 
see the things that he never knew existed. To journey and live.

He lived a simple life and a quiet one. Practiced the things he had been 
taught and sought a place he could call home. A safe place. An ancient 
place so far removed that only he knew it to be there.

In the Wicklow Mountians he came across seven stones, standing in a 
circle... seven sisters... stretching themselves skyward to greet the 
heavens. The hillside was dotted with Cairns of the most ancient of his 
kin and of people who he likely never heard of.

It was here that he would build his home. A simple stone house nestled 
among the wooded copse. Hidden, secluded and peaceful. The work 
was hard, but not so hard as Ciaran made it for himself. Long 
accustomed to intense physical regimen, he turned his work into the 
most grueling excercise he could. To build his strength and his stamina. 
To make his body as perfect as he could. To carry the field stones 
through the small river when he could have easily enough walked across 
it by a simple bridge... if he choses to create one. To run uphill with his 
burdens... to carry them in outstretched arms going downhill.

Balance, dexterity, strength and endurance. He drove himself for long 
grueling hours to complete his home. He hunted, fished and trapped in 
the hours he had set aside. Studying the animals and their ways. And in 
his personal time, whenever he could manage some, he practiced his 
weapons skills to increase his speed and precision. He took his skills 
and added his ideas and worked them until he made them as smooth as 
he knew how.

It would take him many years of careful work so as not to disturb the 
holyness of the place... but, rather to work with it in a respect for a force 
of nature that held control over his fate. And those years would pass. 
Ciaran sought out no one. He practiced and labored.

When finally the day came that he could find no more to do with his 
small fortress, embedded in the deep reaches of the mountains. He 
realized that he would have to venture out again. To see what changed. 
To learn all that was new. It was time to rejoin the world. His home would 
be there for him... hidden and secluded. Protected.

He gathered his belongings and his sword and spear and set out  to see 
what was out there. To see who was out there.