CIARAN MAC RORY CELTIC TWILIGHT (Part II) [GM] The Wicklow Mountains 8 A.D. ..... It took you nearly two years to finish your dwelling, built with an ocean of blood and sweat, or so it seemed. The toil hardened your muscles to a point even beyond that which you reached under Scathach's iron tutelage. Now you have a small fortress, hidden high in the mountains where none would dare to intrude, it being the sort of place that local legends would attribute as the dwelling place of all manner of unearthly creatures. You no longer fear the sidhe, or the host of Otherworld demons that sometimes accompany them. With a mixture of relief and regret, you realize that some of the wonder with which you once viewed the world has gone. You can sense things in a way you could not before....at times, you can hear the labored breathing and rapid heartbeat of a deer as you chase it in the lowland hills, before running it to ground. At other times, lying in the bed of straw and grass you've made for yourself, you press your ear to the earth and fancy you hear the world itself, breathing in and out. But these forces of nature, which you perceive as the Quickening, while beautiful and awe-inspiring in their own right, you come to recognize as impersonal, omnipresent things, with no magic about them, simply a part of the universe to which most human beings live their entire lives unaware. In your years on Scathach's misty island, and your shorter years here, you have never once seen a faerie or a ban-sidhe or a black dog or a great serpent or any other unnatural thing. The gods of Eire, if ever they existed, are dead now. The Morrigan herself may be fearsome and powerful, but she is just an immortal, like you and Scathach....albeit one who has lived for an unimaginable length of time. The star though....the one that blazed in the eastern sky and marked the end of your time with Scathach, that is something that remains a mystery to you, a reminder that not all things can be known. It shines for over a year, illuminating the sky, before it dims and finally fades. You rarely see other people. Only once in four years does anyone come anywhere near your secluded retreat, and that's a wandering warrior from the far south, fleeing his homeland after his kin were annihilated in a war between clans you've never heard of. You share dinner with him, and he continues on the next day. From time to time, you meet someone in the lowlands, hunters or women out gathering berries, and you pass yourself off as another far-traveling hunter. Perhaps stories about you eventually surface among the scattered communities at the foot of the mountains, if any two people recall seeing the same stranger with no clan or local relation. It does not concern you much. You hear a few rumors from your own homeland, and so eventually learn of King Conor Mac Nessa's death, and mourn. Ulster is still the greatest kingdom of Eire, but you know that, though it's been a long time, there are still probably some living there who would remember Ciaran Mac Rory. It is not yet time for you to go back. But you come to realize that you can't be a hermit in the mountains forever. You were once a warrior, and you long for the company of others, after all this isolation. Not to mention the company of women. While considering a sojourn out into the world, to see what else can be seen, you are struck still one evening by the unmistakable sensation of the Quickening. During your years with Scathach, you grew so used to it you took it for granted...Scathach was almost always present, and the buzz in your head became background noise, easily tuned out. When you left and hiked up into these mountains, the lack of a constant reminder of another immortal's proximity was something it took getting used to, much like you had to get used to the silence that was once filled with the crashing of waves on the shore. Now you feel it again....an immortal is near. <><><><><> 8 AD Eire Instinct. He didn't think of what he had to do. He knew. The spear was at the ready in his left and without a thought his right hand pulled the the Bastard blade from its sheath at his back. He moved quickly and quietly. The terrain was his ally and he chose his ground well. He would rely on the other immortal to come seek him out. Let the other make the moves, and react accordingly. He would then study his prey and stalk. He had learned all to well, and though he felt no fear, the tension mounted in him. An anticipation of conflict born in the veins of every warrior now coursed through him. Stealthily he moved to hide himself among the features of the land. He moved to ensure that he hadn't walked into the domain of another prepared Immortal. Ever so quietly and softly, like an autumn breeze. His every sense sharpened to scent, sight and sound the prey and fix it fast under his attention. He chose a high ground outcropping that afforded him a view of the narrows below. His prey could only aproach him in two directions. Over the hill itself and it would be a difficult and arduous task that would give Ciaran ample opportunity to prepare and maneuver, or along the narrow itself. The second was preferrable, but he dare not try to outhink a prey he hadn't seen yet. He would take each move as it came and rely on his instincts and years of training.... He waited in the darkness, a part of that black void of night. <><><><><> [GM] Not a sound, not a flickering shadow, marks any moving thing. The buzz is still there, in your head, though not strong. You know that Scathach had a better 'directional' sense than you did...you were never able to get more than a rough approximation of distance, if that, in the time you spent with her, but she seemed to be able to discern your location, while you played hide and seek and tag with spears in the woods. She told you it wasn't something that was easily trainable, just something that comes with time. You play your waiting game until the darkness begins to lighten at the edge of the horizon, just a hint of pale grey rimming the sky. Then you hear a flapping sound, and see a large, black bird taking wing, disappearing from view in a few moments. The warning buzz subsides. <><><><><> He waits, crouched in the depths of the waning shadows as a greyness come creeping across the land. Mists in its wake. *Aye, I'll not be making it that easy Morrigan.* He held his place. Even sinking lower into the cover. There existed the possibilty that she came seeking him. To what end, he couldn't be sure. But the meeting didn't appeal to him under any circumstance. She was wily and crazy. She would know the extent that she would have to fly to get the distance to make the warning sensation fade. And height always had an advantage. Perhaps to lull him into a sense of ease. Perhaps she hoped he would move and reveal himself, thinking she had flown. While in reality, she lurked far above... using the predatory senses of the bird to see the minute details of movement. No, more time would have to pass, before he would move. *Never trust a Woman,* he mused to himself. *You taught me that... my first lesson.* If she wanted him, she would have to come and get him.... and he waited for the now. <><><><><> [GM] The grey edge of the sky spreads, while you sit crouched in your retreat, morning chill soaking into your bones. As a thin edge of sun appears over the horizon, you still feel no more trace of the Morrigan's presence. Leaving you to wonder if she is still near, but hiding just out of range, or if this was just some game she's playing, to test your nerves. <><><><><> He waited for a good long time, as the sun arced its' way across the sky. Finally, just after midday, he slipped from his place of hiding and gathered his stuff to set out again. *Aye, she's lived forever and could outwait me till that long all over again, like it was a night's dream to her. So, we'll change the game a bit.* He purposely walked in the shadows of the trees wherever he could. Always alert to the damnable bird and that warning sensation in the Quickening. He walked along, in no particular direction, and stopped for all manner of things. For the things in and of themselves. To stare at the a small waterfall in a shallow river. To watch to ferrits scampering in the grasses along the side of a trail. The casting rays of sunlight that dappled the forest floor. A small hardy patch of wild strawberries being tended to by a lonely bee. This and so much more, but never so deeply that he would lose sight of the fact that the Morrigan could be anywhere, at any time... Or there might be another... and she had come to warn him... all things were possible... and the Morrigan was crazy. He moved on. <><><><><> [GM] Your wandering leads you down the mountains, and eventually towards the lowlands of the interior. One direction is as good as another- you have plenty of time and nowhere to go, really, and the Morrigan could trail you wherever you go. The sky is darkening prematurely as you come to a small stream. You've barely begun to wade in, when something prickles at the back of your neck. You spin around, ankle deep in the water, and see Morrigan- standing right there! On the shore, within a spear-length of you (and she is holding her spear.) Her expression is frighteningly calm, though little sparks of light seem to flicker in the very center of her pupils. Upon facing her, the sensation of the Quickening floods over you with overwhelming force- but only after you turned around! After all your years with Scathach, Morrigan still came almost close enough to strike your head off without you sensing her approach. You can't tell if striking your head off is what she has in mind. She is utterly motionless, and her eerie stare seems to go right through you. She is as terrifying as the first time you met her, a generation ago. <><><><><> The Fenian slowly stepped back two small paces. Very slowly, to keep his footing. His eyes never left her. The fear gripped him as he struggled to hold a grip on his rational thoughts... the few remaining. "Aye, lad... Ya knew she was comin'... Ya knew. Sooner or later... Sooner." His steps were meant to provide him with as much of a terrain advantage as he could manage, but he knew that it was too late. At any rate, if he could give himself just enough distance to make sure she had to advance to strike hand to hand or throw the spear, it would buy just a moment more. He held his own weapon low but ready for a defensive stance. He wanted nothing more than to find a peaceful solution, as he knew that he would be dead with any other option. For years there had been a nagging question that haunted him. And now he needed all the delays he could muster. The appearance of her hunting him earlier brought the thoughts back to his mind... *Strike up the Ceili lad... time to dance for yer' life.* "Aye Morrigan, tis a fine day to be visitin' in fields. I'm glad your here, I've got a thought I'd like to share with you, if'n you have the time..." He never paused for an answer. Any pause could cost him his head. "...You came to that ridge lookin' for something, and it wasn't me. Nay, someone... Seatanta, I'd be wagerin'. He had trained with Scathach no long before that day. I remember him tellin' me about it. You came to fetch him, but he went and got his fool arse laid out and his head separated from himself. But I was a new immortal on that day, and you had Scathach train me and now you come to me for the same something. I needed more training to become what you wanted, more than Seatanta did. But he was an arrogant and foolish man, always had been. I am a little brighter, always had been..." When he realized that he really had nothing left to say about his ridiculous theory he paused. He knew he was reaching, but it made a sort of twisted sense to him, and he, faced with his final end, grasped at anything to buy time. "...Your thoughts on this bit of silly madness?" <><><><><> [GM] Morrigan doesn't move, doesn't respond. She is as still as a stone, and for long, breathless moments, she seems not to have even heard you. Then the light goes out of her eyes, and her gaze focuses on you. "Not bad," she says, quite calmly. "You can follow a line of thinking farther than Seatanta could, true enough." Her spear is still held in both hands before her, seemingly not a very good position from which to begin a fight with you, at this distance, but that doesn't comfort you much. "Now does that trail of thoughts lead anywhere further?" <><><><><> The stance and the spear aren't in position... but that never stopped Scathach. And from that position of seeming unprepared weakness, she could cut you down as you took two steps to seize the bait. The thought flashed as he recalled his early days and his numerous early deaths. "My line of reasoning ends where fact no longer provides insight. Scathach would offer nothing more than cryptic words about her purpose being her own, and not understandin' yours or you. I could only venture that you and she are preparing me for something more than just defending myself in this immortal gambit we call our lives... Aye, I'm thinkin' you protect this land so that others of our kind don't travel here, but there is something or someone out there that will one day come looking.... But I am only guessin' now..." The longer he could talk, the more he learned and the longer he lived. He daren't let confidence creep in. He still remembered his very first lesson as taught by her. Never trust a woman. "I would like to understand this all..." <><><><><> [GM] Morrigan laughs. "Protect this land?" She shakes her head scornfully, tossing her grey mane of hair to and fro. "We were all invaders once, boy. Do you think your own ancestors sprang native from this island's soil? But still, 'tis better there be sons of Eire born here who walk the land for all time, than foreigners from overseas." She cackles again, a grating sound that could shatter glass, and you hear a raven cawing racously in response, high overhead. "Leave off such speculations, Ciaran. I thought perhaps you'd be interested in something of greater personal significance. Have you ever given a thought to why Queen Medb wanted Cuculainn dead?" She grins, showing teeth that, for a moment, appear to be a dual row of serrated ivory knife points, before the illusion fades and they are just teeth again, as perfect and white as your own and Scathach's. <><><><><> Ciaran did indeed stop to consider her words. They turned his thoughts in such a completely different direction. Medb was a powerful and evil sorceror, all of them were. But this woman was particularly insidious. He knew only what Seatanta had told him about the animosity. But Ciaran also knew that Seatanta had probably worded the story for effect and to conceal certain truths. "I know that she wanted him to be her's... both Champion and lover, and that it wasn't long after this first confrontation with her, that he said he met you... but as a young woman. He said that it was too late that he recognized you for the Goddess that you were. His words mind you." He thought for a long moment. "And I suppose it is possible that his story is not entirely as it would appear... She might be an Immortal. Looking for his head. Scathach told me I was the only male immortal in Eire, but that left me to wonder of the other sex... But I didn't ask. If Medb is such, then it explains a great deal. She seemingly set a great stock in hunting down Cuculhain. Though she never presented herself as a warrior... she preffers to send vast numbers of warriors to their death in the hope's that one will succeed. Only when things are certain, does she move in herself... I can see much in that. And I can also see that she might come after me in the same fashion, she being the evil one she is. Her own way of hunting heads as it were. That being, it is of great significance to me... but for the sake of revenge upon Seatanta, I am not motivated. Scathach taught me too well. Taught me to put aside my Fian rages in the interest of surviving. Sooner or later, Medb will learn of me and come looking. Why is it that you tell me this now?" <><><><><> [GM] "Why now?" Morrigan grins again. "Medb knew, you see." You aren't sure exactly what Morrigan is claiming Medb knew. "You're right, lad. Sooner or later.....rather sooner, I think." From beyond the woods across the stream you're standing in, through which you see enough sunlight to know that it's merely a stand of trees with open space on the other side, you hear hoofbeats. At least three men are approaching on horses, at a fair clip. Involuntarily (?) your gaze flickered in that direction at the noise, and when you look back, an eyeblink later, Morrigan is gone. <><><><><> The Morrigan was gone. He thanked her silently for the warning, and turned his attention back to the riders who were inbound. He didn't feel the stirring in the quickening, but figured she was near enough. *You want to go hunting heads Medb.... You'll have to play the game like everyone else.... Time to even the odds, cushla.* He ran down the stream with a few yards with long loping strides. His spear in one hand and his other unsheathing Bas Cuarto. It was likely these three were here to flush him into a direction where others waited to snare him... they probably already had the advantage of terrain. Scathach taught him well enough to recognize that possibility. Medb would be safely settled outside of his range of sense, and wouldn't approach until after the trap had been sprung. That fit the way she normally worked. The short trip down the stream cost him just a few extra moments, but they would have to expend twice that or more to pick up his trail again. He emerged from the water on the same bank as the riders approached from. He had no intention of being flushed in the other direction. He then ran into the depths of the woods at an angle, leading them deeper and away from where he anticipated the trap to be waiting, and set about to find a piece of terrain that he could scout them from. He knew that he could be wrong, about their intentions and Medb's trap... but he had to take that risk. He knew that if he could get the higher ground and run them where he needed them to be, an exposed lime ridge that ran along a trail farther to the north, he could hide just out of sight and take two of them before they knew what hit them. The third would be a different matter. But he would still hold height over the horsed man. *Reconoiter first, then plan*, he chided himself as he moved along deeper into the forest. Leading them on a merry chase in an arcing circle, he then cut doubled back a short ways and secured himself in a position that would afford him a view of them, plus an escape route towards the lime outcropping... These three had to go down first before he would be able to set out to hunt down Medb... turn her own game around. Prey becomes predator. <><><><><> [GM] You move swiftly, and get across the stream and down a ways before the riders emerge from the woodline on the inside stretch. However, while you lead them towards the high ground, things don't work out quite as you hoped when you cross a brief gap in the trees, and one of your hunters catches a glimpse on you. With a shout, they spur their horses into the closest thing they can manage to a gallop, and though you're more mobile here in the woods, it's clear they will catch up to you before you reach the ridge. <><><><><> His mind races. He needed an adjustment. He needed to limit their mobility, and yet keep them mounted. As long as they thought they had an advantage with the horses, they would stay on them. He would prove them wrong. He wound through the trees, serpentinely cutting his way deeper into the forest. Laying his trap, he would confine them to ride single file or split apart to continue the pursuit. Once he was certain that he had gotten them to do as he wanted, he gave up the rabbit role, and doubled back to close the snare on the closest. The running was over and the killing would begin. He slipped behind the largest of the trees he could find and waited for the first to pursue his tracks. His sword in his right, he waited and kept alert... Medb was a dangerous woman... and the first lesson from the Morrigan stuck with him... <><><><><> [GM] You position yourself behind a suitable tree, and hear the lead rider approaching, cautiously slowing the pace of his horse as he tries to pick up your trail again. His companions are not far behind him. They're clustered fairly closely together, though not quite single file. <><><><><> When the lead rider was just clearing the edge of view, Ciaran drove the tip of the spear upwards, aimed for the man's torso. The extra reach of the spear allowed him to even the height advantage while not getting in close. Surprise was the key. The reach afforded him the strike without exposing his position to early. Scathach taught him that a spear could even a great many disadvantages. Right now, he wasn't looking for the honorable challenge and glory battle of champions, but rather a simple victory with as little injury to himself as possible. He had no idea how many men Medb brought with her for the chase. He would deal with the others as that moment came. One at a time. <><><><><> [GM] The lead man holds a spear in one hand and the reigns of his horse in the other. He'd have done better to have his sword out, as he might have been able to bring it up quickly enough to parry, but the fraction of a second he had to react to your stepping from behind a tree and thrusting at him wasn't long enough. Your spear point penetrates his leather corselet, and he grimaces in sudden pain. The horse, well-trained, only shies away a little at your sudden appearance, but that and the spear- thrust is enough to cause the man to topple to the ground. His horse steps away from him, and he rolls on the ground clutching his side. The two mounted men you can see behind him have jerked to a halt, giving you one more second to act freely before they can think to react. <><><><><> He wastes none of that time. With a well practiced wrist roll he brings the spear to bear. Ciaran looses the barbed spear in the air at his clearest target. Aimed low enough to take the rider in the belly if it struck cleanly. The downed man would wait for a moment, he wasn't likely to be going anywhere fast. The sword was ready, and the fallen rider had dropped his own spear... always options... *One at a time, let it flow... reactions born of disciplined training* His thoughts were like a cadence as he stilled himself for the fray... <><><><><> [GM] Your spear flies into the second man's belly, carrying him off his horse. He doesn't look likely to get up again. The third man isn't able to move in to attack immediately because the first two horses are in the way, though they move aside readily enough as he urges his own mount forward. Grim-faced, he nonetheless holds his spear aloft, ready to either throw it or close and thrust it at you from horseback. <><><><><> Ciaran watched the man, timing... judging his move. His shoulders, his eyes, and his hips as he sat in the saddle. He was waiting on his decision. He wanted the throw... the man would be unarmed until he got his sword out. By then, it would be too late. But so too, was he prepared to deal with the charge. He positioned himself defensively and waited. He held ground dead-on, facing the rider. His own sword leveled in front of him, offering little or no indication of his desires or moves. The he taunted the man, to force an irrational action on his part. "What are you waiting for... are you afraid? Are you even half the warrior you pretend to be.... or have you wet your britches? I think your mother is calling you home... little man." <><><><><> [GM] The man on horseback doesn't reply to your taunts, but his eyes flare, and he drives his horse forward with a kick, eager to spit you at the end of his spear. The horse closes the gap between you in moments. Your sword comes up to deflect his spear- but not fast enough. You try to let the Quickening guide your movements as well; the heightened awareness of your environment can at times give you a preternatural ability to avoid blows. Scathach taught you that, but she also told you it takes years and years to master the art of using the Quickening as a sixth sense as natural as those you were born with. This time, you aren't fast enough. The other man is no novice warrior, and his thrust is true. The point penetrates your leather corselet easily, and sinks deep into your chest. You are forced backwards and driven to your knees, coughing up blood and feeling a very familiar pain, as the blade pierces your lung, much like the one that first killed you, half your lifetime ago. Forced to keep moving, he releases the spear as he slows his horse and turns around. His spear bobs up and down for a moment, then slides free, falling to the ground with your blood wetting the blade. You struggle to breath....it was almost a mortal wound, and though you'll recover with a little time, the other warrior isn't going to give you that time. <><><><><> Time. Needed time. He struggled to get his bearings and find the horseman. Time was not to be had. Again, he tasted the salt of his blood in his mouth. No matter how often Scathach killed him to innur him to death and dying, that taste never became any easier to accept. The man was close and turning to come at him again. He would have to draw a sword. Time. Scathach taught him a lesson he would never forget. To fight on with devastating wounds. She forced him to keep moving and fighting, or the 'death' she delivered was more akin to torture. It became easier to keep fighting on then it was to yield and let himself heal... because she wouldn't. There was no such thing as quitting... no yielding. This wasn't even training. This man was likely to prepare him for Medb. He wouldn't be able to outrun the man. He wouldn't get out of the clearing before the man ran him down. No time. He closed his mind to the pain and gripping fear. Everything became automatic to him. This was his last chance. With every resolve he could muster he dragged himself up to meet the man, but his intention was not to give him the time to get the horse turned and his weapon drawn. The Fenian brought his sword around in a tight well aimed arc. Sudden and swift, his eyes never leaving the horseman's own. He slashed at the horse's neck. Even the odds. He couldn't buy time... he had to fight for it. He had to make it for himself. Medb wasn't going to win that easy. <><><><><> [GM] The horseman comes at you again, his own sword out. He expects an attack on himself, or a sword raised to deflect his own attack. He lets his mount step right into your level swing. The horse, however, is not quite as heedless of its own safety as its rider, and rears back when it sees your blade coming at it. Not quickly enough; you slice deeply into its neck, but not enough to cripple or kill it immediately. The horse screams and almost tumbles its rider, but he manages to stay on its back, swearing as the horse dances around, stomping the ground in its agony, and spewing blood from the wound in its neck. You can sympathize; your own wound is still gushing blood, and you feel lightheaded. <><><><><> The gore dripped from the blade that Ciaran held before him. A step forward, time slowed to an imperceptible level. The horse danced, step by step. Blood spraying. The rider cursing and trying to control the animal. With every monumentally slow beat of the Fenian's own heart he felt the gurgling of blood within his chest. Everything was red with someone's blood. His own, the horse's, and the enemy's: where one began and another ended could not be determined anymore. It mattered not. And another step. The man was occupied by his beast and the Fenian thrust his sword at his chest when the horse wheeled him around. The motion of the thrust caused the sharpest pain he had ever felt. Even sharper than his intial death or any of the others that Scathach delivered in training. It was a pain that went deeper into his soul than any blade could ever reach. He would kill this man and then any others who rode under the banner of the Fey Queen, and lastly Medb herself would lose her head to him. There was no remorse, no compassion, no glory, and certainly no mercy. The sword was aimed to crease the man's ribcage, impaling him from side to side. <><><><><> [GM] Despite having a wounded, panicking horse, the rider sensibly is more worried about being cut off his saddle than thrown from it. His sword blocks both your thrusts, then swings back, almost taking your ear off. He curses, trying to get his horse to hold still, but it moves back and forth under him, putting him at a disadvantage. Even so, this is no novice warrior. And unfortunately, neither is the first one you unseated. He's rising, gritting his teeth and holding his own sword. From the blood oozing out of his side, it appears his wound is less severe than yours. Of course, you'll recover much faster, if you get a chance to recover at all. <><><><><> The humor had run out of this some time back. Now Ciaran was seriously losing his good disposition. He couldn't face them both. Even with one wounded. He couldn't outrun them, since there were two good horses nearby. The other man was on foot, but his wounds were obviously not as serious as Ciaran had hoped. The odds were mounting against him. His own pain was building. Every movement was an excruciating test of his endurance and will to survive. He fought aganst the greyness that flooded his mind and threatened to decide his fate for him. If he was going to survive this, then it would have to be in the next few seconds that he altered the way things were beginning to happen. He mentally gauged the amount of time that it would take the man on foot to muster the strength to close on him in ernest. Ciaran decided his tactic. He drove his sword towards the mounted warrior with a step forward. His grip was strong as he adjusted the angle of the blade, to change the angle at which it could be blocked from. The mounted man would have to commit to a decision about whether or not Ciaran would feint or strike. If strike was to be the decision then the block would have to cut around inside and across his body to sweep the blow aside. Scatach had taught him that any attack should have a followthru... hundreds of options for any counter. Followthru would be exactly what he had in mind... when he swung the blade 360 degrees around to take the man in the back. But every move had it's moment and it would all be played one step at a time. If the man blocked it downward, then his horse would be impaled and Ciaran could accept that as well as a good stike. It would buy him more time to think... to live.... to deal with the next man. Lastly, if the man was confused by the angle of the attacking blade and figured it to be a feint... he would die then and there. His mind was focused and committed to this. Reacting to what was directly before him at this moment. What happened next would have to wait. If his future was to be decided in the stroke of a sword, he hoped that it would be his. <><><><><> [GM] The mounted man is taking no chances, and chooses to block your thrust, deflecting it away from himself and his horse. He is not prepared for your desperate reverse swing. He twists awkwardly trying to put his sword in the path of yours again, but fails....Bas Cuartu sinks into him with a solid "chunk!" sound, going all the way through his spine. He screams, and aided by the momentum of your blade, topples forward out of his saddle. The horse lurches forward, all training gone, instinct taking over and urging it to flee. The other wounded man gives you no time to celebrate your victory. He comes at you swinging. You can't pull your sword back quickly enough to block it, but step aside, with speed borne of desperation and aided by the slight edge the Quickening puts on your movements. His blade whuffs past your face in a downward swing and he staggers, off- balance... <><><><><> There was no time to celebrate, and there was no reason to do so, thus he had no inclination. The other man came at him before Ciaran could bring the blade around to block, he stepped aside the swing and the man staggered under the weight of his own followthru that connected with nothing. Pain and exhaustion forced him to take desparate actions to survive. He could not outlast a fresh warrior, and he would not get any time if he allowed any of these to get back to Medb. He had to keep her guessing.... It was purely reaction and instinct that controlled him at this point. He thrust his fist at the man's face to propel him further off balance and followed with his sword in the other hand to finish the work. <><><><><> [GM] Your fist bludgeons his nose, and he staggers aside, then backpedals desperately as your sword comes at him. His sword is still too low, and only by nearly throwing himself backwards does he avoid your blow. His boots skid in the damp forest undergrowth, but he just barely keeps his balance, then hacks at you without much forethought, trying to keep you at a distance. You parry and counterattack, and the two of you exchange several more blows, each intercepted by ringing steel. Trying to regain the offensive, your opponent gets overeager, and swings at you so wildly that he loses his grip on his sword! It goes spinning over your shoulder, and you get a quick glimpse of his face, eyes widening with an almost comical "Oh s***!" expression. <><><><><> Ciaran knew he had the man pressed. But the victory was elusive and anything could happen. One step at a time. The blades rang as they clashed against one another. The man was overreaching and trying to keep up an offensive. Ciaran parried and counterattacked time and time again. When the man lost the sword in his desparate strike, Ciaran knew it was over. With a direct thrust he brought the point of the blade right up to the man's throat. He could see the blood well up on the tip of his bastard sword. He held the tension against the man, forcing him to step backwards, keeping him from being able to reach for a new weapon. He spoke to the unarmed man, his words just above a whisper, hissing and menacing. "You get one chance.... think carefully.... If I like your answer, you just might live... MIGHT...." He draws quiet, allowing that to sink in. "Where is she? Where is Medb at?" He kept his senses as alert as he could for any movement from the man. His blade ready to plunge into the man's throat. He expected to sense the quickening presense of a nearby immortal at any moment. He expected the Fey Queen to come riding up looking to take his head. His eyes held fast on the man before him, as he looked down the length of his blade. There was no hint of mercy or compassion..... <><><><><> [GM] The disarmed warrior swallows hard and tries to look braver than he must feel. "Q..Queen Medb?" he stammers. "Why, sh-she's back in Connacht, of course!" <><><><><> "Then why are you hunting me," Ciaran said as he pushed the blade a fraction. "And if I think you are lying to me... you'll die slowly as the wolves tear the flesh from you're twitching body. Who sent you?" His eyes were dark and menacing. He wanted to end it now, but any information would be useful to him... suspicions ran deeply in him and he didn't like the course they followed. <><><><><> [GM] Now the man looks puzzled. "Queen Medb sent us, of course! She told us where you'd be found." You notice a raven, circling high overhead. <><><><><> "Then take this message back to her; Her time has run out.... I'm coming for her head....." Ciaran swivels the hilt in his hand and strikes the man fully against the temple. To knock him unconcious. If he dies, so be it..... He took the next few moments to finish the other two and then the wounded horse had to be put out of it's misery. The Fenian looked to the Raven. "Damn you, as well... Do you think these lives," he says holding his sword out as he turned to look at the fallen, "My life ...amount to nothing more than some pieces in a game you play for your twisted purposes." Looking skyward he continues to call to the Raven. "HOW COULD SHE HAVE KNOWN WHERE I WOULD BE.... MORRIGAN.... YOU TOLD HER..... WHAT DO YOU WANT OF ME?" He stood turning in circles as the bird flew overhead. <><><><><> [GM] The man crumples and falls, and lies unmoving. His chances of making it back to Connacht aren't great, with that wound in his side, though he might survive it. The raven silently wheels about twice more, then without another sound, banks to the west and disappears over the treeline. <><><><><> "I canna' believe that I'm really going to do this," the fenian said as he shook his head. His anger faded quickly. He returned his attention to the immediate moment. He couldn't dismiss the possibility that the man had lied to him and the Medb was about the area. He concentrated for a moment to feel his own sense of quickening. At times he had been able to reach out with it, like it was some great extra sense that connected him into the vastness of the universe. Those times were always unbidden though. This was the first time he reached into his own depths with the intent of touching the primordial essence of his immortality. "So Morrigan... I guess I'll be strung along some more, for west seems to prophetic a direction to fly in... My question," he hissed to himself, "Is whether you are leading me right to her her, or right into her trap... Aye... I don't trust you any more than I do her... Nay... That's not true... I trust you less....... much less." Ciaran gathered what he owned and took the reins of one of the horses. Once he had loaded some spears and food and anything else that appealed to him, he mounted the animal and set out for the west. The Damn Raven would be overhead in the places she needed to be... If she was actually going to guide him that way at all. Either way, He needed to go west to get to Connacht and Medb.... <><><><><> [GM] The horse is a good one; Medb sent good men after you, with good mounts. Quite a few, as it turns out. You've barely broken out of the woods when you see a knot of riders gathered further up the river. All of them armed men. You count at least a dozen. You sense no Immortal presence among them. The raven is nowhere in sight. <><><><><> Ciaran drew up on the reins and brought the horse to a stop. He had to avoid being seen. He could never survive a fight against a dozen or more, and who knew how many would be waiting the next time around. He held his ground for the briefest of moments. He had to know whether or not he had been seen by them. With a couple of steps he moved the animal nearer to the foliage of the woods. Hopefully the natural camouflage would help him get away from them. *Aye, so ye be leading me right to them... ehhh Morrigan?* His thoughts were fleeting as he looked through the low hanging branches at the group. <><><><><> [GM] Someone in the group spotted your horse, but this does not seem to alarm them immediately. Most likely they believe it is one of their comrades. A couple of riders begin trotting along the stream casually, in your direction. <><><><><> They thought that he was one of them. But that wouldn't last to much longer. They would likely get close enough for him to kill them before the others reacted, but then he would have no where to run. The others would be upon him before he could finish the job and be gone. It was a bad option. With ten or more hunting and possibly more somewhere else, they would be able to outflank him soon enough. He needed to figure how to use the situation to his advantage. He wanted to run. But the Morrigan would likely provide Medb with new information. He figured that he could reveal himself and call his challenge to them as warriors and face them one at a time. But he knew that he lacked the strength and endurance to outlast another 12 or more. His wounds from the last three had only just healed. These twelve were likely to be just as good as the three. Medb had hundreds more just like them, waiting to die at her very command. They were getting closer. He held back and concealed himself in the underbrush. They would find the horse, see that it was tethered to a tree, maybe look about. He needed to catch one unaware... Every time he thought he understood the game he was a pawn in, he only found himself further confused. He needed to get more information, like their exact orders. He held the blade ready and camouflaged himself and waited. Stilling his breathing and blending himself with everything around him, becoming part of the place itself. <><><><><> [GM] The two warriors ride up to the edge of the trees, and see your horse tethered, a few paces into the woods. "Brán? Eirin?" one of them calls out. Both dismount, and walk their own horses into the shadows under the trees. "What the hell?" one of them grunts, with an exasperated sigh. "BRÁN!!" he yells, louder. "EIRIN! MATCH!" They walk closer to you, not seeing you. It will be easy enough to get at least one of them by surprise, but they're too close together to take one without the other noticing. <><><><><> Ciaran waited until the moment was right. He surged from his concealed position to grab the nearest one at the moment his back was turned to the Fenian. The sword sweeping through the air came to a stop at the man's throat. Ciaran's free hand grabbed the man by the hair and yanked his head back, letting the blade bite the flesh just enough to make his impression very clear. His eyes locking onto the other man and his words directed to him. A fierce whisper, or more correctly, a hoarse commanding tone. "If you call out again... he dies," he said jerking the man's head back further to demonstrate his command of the situation. "Then you die, before you can call or run... Anyone calls out... he dies. I have a question or two and if you value your lives, I'll hear the truth. Do you understand me?" He waited on the replies, lips parted, teeth bared, and a battle lust showing in his eyes. <><><><><> [GM] You grab the first man. He yelps, startled, then stiffens as your blade comes close to his throat. The other man steps forward then stops, tensed. His hand grips the hilt of his own sword, but he doesn't draw it. "You can't possibly fight all of us," he says. <><><><><> He responded in the same voice. "But you have your doubts.... the horse tells you I have already bested three and my sword thirsts for more. All at once, the odds are against me, but would you be base enough to deny me the right of challenge to face you each in single combat as is a warrior's right. I dare think not, for what a legacy that would be, told in tales and sung in legends." Ciaran pauses a moment to ensure his surroundings have not changed. Ever watchful for the approach of others. "Enough banter. This man's life is going to be determined by your answers to my questions," he said as he angled the blade just enough to remind the two men that he meant what he said. "I'll start with.... Why are you here?" <><><><><> [GM] "Haven't you figured that out already, Dog of Ulster?" the Connact warrior snarls. "Queen Medb sent us and bid us to bring her your head. If you wish single combat one by one, I will be the first to face you. I am Cor Mac Neery of Cruachain. If you slit Lughan's throat, though, I will be on you before he falls, and even if you are as good as you boast, the rest of my companions will run you to ground like a stag." Lughan grunts and squirms a little, not quite so blasé about your imminent demise if it appears likely to follow his own. <><><><><> The pieces began to fall into place. Unfortunately the puzzle made no sense to him. He looked into the man's eyes. He was right. They could ride him down like a stag... if he let them know he was there. But, he was a man of honor. A warrior. A man of his word. And he knew his chances would be better if faced them in single combat. He would not be able to fight all of them at once or even in groups. His mind raced and he suddenly felt very alone and scared and only the very depths of his eyes revealed that, but it was there. *Oh, Scathach... what would you do now... What have I done to the Morrigan or Medb, if they are even two different people? What have I done to deserve this... Tell me Scathach, is this the double edge the Morrigan warned me of? Tell me something Scathach... Help me... Guide me... What would you do now?* Then he knew what she would do. She would win.... She would survive... She would fight... her way. Ciaran nodded to the man who called himself Cor Mac Neery. "You're right, of course...." With the simplest of hitch motions he slid the edge of his blade the barest distance he needed to slit Lughan's throat. He would choke and die on his own blood, it would be slow but that was the chance that Lughan took in coming here. When the blade had cut the man's throat, he shoved the body at the other man as he snapped his sword hand out and he lunged. The sweep of the blade slashed through the air with all the speed that the Fenian could muster. A wound or a kill, it didn't matter, he had to be away from this place and away from the trap that had been laid for his honor, the trap that was meant to prey upon his instincts as a male and a Fianna soldier. He had been trained better than that. No remorse, no mercy... There can be only one. Cuculhain died because he couldn't live with that lesson...and so he died because of it. Scathach's lessons would not be wasted a second time. <><><><><> [GM] Lughan gurgles and staggers towards his comrade. Cor Mac Neery swears and steps aside, and draws his own sword, barely dodging your first swing. He isn't fast enough to parry your second, and your blade chops downwards across his sternum, biting through the leather jacket he wears and sinking into his flesh, chipping against bone, before you draw it back. Cor stumbles back reeling from the blow, flailing desperately with his sword to keep you from following up with a finishing blow. Lughan falls to his knees, clutching at his throat, futilely trying to stem the arterial bleeding that comes squirting between his fingers. <><><><><> Ciaran started at the man, his sword readied and poised to strike the man dead. As he advanced, the man reeled back to keep a defensive distance. Two steps, maybe three. Ciaran turned and bolted to his tied horse. The man was in no condition to fight anyway, and he kept a wary eye and his blade ready just in case. He hadn't the time or the patience to prolong the fight. He untied his animal and mounted, knowing full well that the other ten or so would be upon him very soon if they had heard anything. There had been no clash of steel and that was still on his side. But the man could cry out. He needed to get mounted before they realized that they would need a horse. Time was precious and he had no intention of fighting them on their terms. He would fight to survive and cheat to win if he had to. No remorse. It was the way of it. They cheated to hunt him down and he would do the same to beat them. He turned the horse and kicked it to run him deeper into the woods again. He could get out somewhere else and then make for holy ground to rest and collect his thoughts. He tried to remember where he had last seen a circle of stones or burial cairns. His own home on holy ground in the mountains was too far away. He rode as fast as the animal would take him. <><><><><> [GM] The man does scream, and he's not quite as incapacitated as you assumed. Yes, your chop across his chest has left him stumbling and bleeding, and the chances of his wound not taking cold and killing him in a matter of weeks aren't great....but as you've already learned to your misfortune, Medb sent good warriors after you. As he calls out "TO ARMS! ON YOUR HORSES, LADS! THE PUP IS OVER HERE!", Cor Mac Neery comes at you, swinging his sword as you kick your horse into a gallop. The blade slashes deeply and tears a painful chunk of flesh out of your side, almost enough to cause you to slide out of your saddle. Gritting your teeth, you continue on. If you were not immortal, Cor would have just finished you, for a normal man wouldn't be able to ride far with a wound like he inflicted. By the time an over-the-shoulder glance reveals that the other man are indeed in hot pursuit, though a fair distance behind you, the bleeding has slowed to a trickle. You know from experience that you heal faster when resting than when you try to keep moving, or fighting. Unless you manage to lose them quickly, you'll still be weak when they catch up. <><><><><> There was little he could do to stop the man from screaming to his fellows. But the slashing wound that carved him was preventable, had Ciaran been alert and not fancifully considering holy refuge. He cursed himself as he looked back over his shoulder to find the pursuit riding on his trail. He had no way to fight them, for they would overtake him before he was healed, and even if he was healed... He wouldn't survive a fight of that many warriors. He pushed the horse, near to the point where the beast ran in a panic. He held himself low in the saddle, switched the rein to his sword hand for the amount of time it took him to draw his knife. The trail wound through the forestland and Ciaran sought an opportune piece of territory, but time was a harsh mistress and he would have to settle for anything soon enough. As the trial wound and skirted a low hill, ciaran swung his leg over the animal and slid from the saddle, slashing at the animal's hindquarters with the dagger. A wound, not deep enough for serious harm, but certainly capable of panicking and enraging the beast into a run that might even kill it... It didn't matter at this point to him. A tragic loss, the beast was a fine mount to be sure, but all things considered... Ciaran had no options open to him. He stumbled when his feet hit the ground. The pain in his side lancing and blinding as he rolled and tumbled into the underbrush and down the side of the hill. His hope lie in the fact that the warriors would pursue the animal's tracks as it dashed blindly along the trail and pass him over long enough to allow the healing to take hold. He scrabbled further and deeper into cover as he heard the pursuit rounding the bend in the trial. The hunt was on and they pursued like it was nothing more than a stag to be brought down. He stopped every motion and every sound and even his breathing became still as he lay low in the brush, concealing himself the way Scathach had taught him. The way he had learned to hide from her and the Morrigan of late. It was as real then as it was now... if he was discovered, he would die as he had then whenever he wasn't hidden well enough... but these men would certainly make it permanent. And he waited and hoped and offered a silent prayer to Danu.... <><><><><> [GM] You land badly from your horse, feeling your ankle twist painfully. That would be another injury that would be a killer in this situation, if you were mortal. Being Immortal, you can endure the pain and keep running a short distance, knowing it will heal soon, but if Scathach were here, she'd carve you up for your carelessness. Your horse screams and runs on, and you dash into the woods, rolling behind a tree and pulling a pile of leaves and a half-uprooted sapling over you, as you hear the hooves of your pursuers' horses pounding on your trail. They approach, then recede, as they continue to follow your panicked horse. <><><><><> They won't follow the horse long enough. Ciaran knew this. But his body was tired and weak and he wanted to rest. To heal. Every second that he waited was another step lost though... and another step was that much closer to an escape from this hell. He had no place to go... No where to run. They would hunt him forever. When this group couldn't find him, they would go back to Medb and she would send more... after the Morrigan told her where he was going or headed or at. No matter, he wasn't ready to give up yet. His eyes searcherd the trees as he lay there on his back in the undebrush. He was afraid to find the damnable raven there, watching him, haunting him like a preternatural shadow. He waited till there was no sound save this soft and pained rhythm of his own breath. He rolled enough to look back up the hill and searched for any indication that he was not alone. When he was certain, he forced his weary body to stand and he walked into the forest in a direction away from the pursuit. He walked slowly and carefully so he could take the time to cover his path and hide his passing. He moved with care so as not to leave glaring evidence that he had been through the area. And it was time for him to heal. At the nearest stream, he waded in and drank and washed the blood from his body and leathers. He then followed the riverbed shallows for a distance before emerging on the opposite shore. He drew his sword and cleaned it, sharpened it as best he could and continued on. He just kept walking... the direction wasn't important. East, West... whatever... Holy ground wouldn't protect him from the mortals who hunted him... But perhaps leaving Eire would... at least from this enemy. Too soon to worry about it... he just kept walking. <><><><><> [GM] You walk for a long time, until your side has stopped aching, and your ankle has stopped throbbing, and you are once again in perfect physical condition. There is no sign of the hunters; at least for the moment, you seem to have eluded them. And no sign of any ravens either. <><><><><> East. For the time, Ciaran decided East was as good an option as any. Tara... The Dun of Tara... where the five great roads met. It would be there that he could decide his next move. Holy Ground, in the form of the Stone of Destiny, would offer him a refuge and that was on the hill itself. He could find many of his kind. Warriors looking for work, seeking to join legend and be legends. Great armies could be made in Tara. Great alliances could be forged. Tara Hill was more than 500 feet high and overlooked the village of Tara. It was a new town, but one that offered promise for growth. The river Boyne was nearby, and from Tara he could find passage across the sea to the land of the Briton Celts and the Roman invaders.... perhaps across to the far lands that Scathach had told him about. He continued for a long time, stopping only for water and foraging. He had lost his spear during the first fight and didn't feel that it was safe enough to hunt with knife and sword. He stopped for a brief rest at the headwaters of the Boyne. Ever wary, he made camp near the edge of the stream. He was tired, but he didn't dare stay for too long a time. And he stared in the water and looked at his reflection. He was tired and he looked tired. He couldn't help but look at the eyes of the man who was once happy and carefree... and now suspicious and beleaguered. The eyes. *The young man of twelve looked into the eyes he saw in the reflection of the water. The eyes of a warrior. He knew he would be a great hero one day. It was a dream shared by every youth of his day. "Aye Ciaran, yer faher sent me te fetch ya," said a young woman of similar age. "What ye starin' at, ye fool." She walked up alongside of him and looked into the pool of water. "Yer pretty ya silly boy... now come along." He sheepeishly smiled and looked at his cousin. "Oh Aisling, ya tease me so... I was just thinkin' that's all," he said. "Nah, you was dreamin' again." "I guess," he answered, "But faher is a farmer and being a warrior is what I want... that means I must dream. One day I will be a warrior though Aisling. A great warrior, perhaps favored by Danu, and given the power of Legend... maybe become a God and..." "Stop," she said as she laughed. She could hardly contain her laughter. "This is very silly..." "No Aisling, It is my dream... A warrior of Legend, Immortal heroes and beautiful women... The great kings of the five lands will respect and fear me. I will command armies. It will be grand and glorious."* The eyes. *No,* thought a much older and less starry eyed warrior, *It isn't grand and glorious at all........................* In another hour he would be ready to move on.