CIARAN MAC RORY
CELTIC TWILIGHT (Part III)

Tara

8 A.D.

Your journey westward is tense but uneventful. You find yourself 
constantly looking over your shoulder, or your gaze sweeping the sky for 
signs of that accursed bird.

You do of course spot ravens along the way. Any one of them could be 
watching you with more than birdlike curiousity, but none shows itself to 
be anything out of the ordinary. No more horsemen pursue you. None of 
the people you meet, warriors, farmers, a few traveling bards, 
woodsmen, are hostile or seem to recognize you. After having suddenly 
rousted you without warning from your solitary retreat, either Medb and 
Morrigan have lost sight of you, or they are biding their time to strike 
again.

As the number of people you meet increases, you know you are 
approaching Tara, the ancient hilltop site that is the most visited 
population center in the kingdom of Laigin. Neutral in the conflict 
between Ulstar and Connact, the Laigin are one of the most powerful 
tribal federations in Eire, and some of them have joined on both sides of 
the wars to the north, looking for glory. You don't pass Liagin warriors 
and mercenaries from minor tribes only; you also spot not a few Érainn 
warriors, from the vast southern chiefdoms. Their speech is so heavily 
accented as to be barely intelligible, and they dress oddly, with loose 
trousers and long, striped shirts and more jewelry than you're used to 
seeing on men. Clearly, the lure of battle has drawn men from all over 
Eire.

No Immortal presence strikes you, even as you join the throngs milling 
about in Tara village, looking for entertainment, employment, or just 
fights. It would be a natural place to find others of your kind, with so 
many warriors here, and the aftermath of many battles being a trail of 
survivors that comes here for more work, a second chance to win glory. 
But you seem to be alone, in the crowd. Rising to the north is Tara hill, 
and on it, the holy ground that will provide you refuge.

<><><><><>

It had been only 8 years since Ciaran had left Scathach's Island. The 
days following the great star in the east. The symbol of the Gods that a 
great change was coming upon the world. During that time he had 
travelled over a good deal of Eastern Eire. He avoided the southernmost 
tuaths. They were a different breed of people altogether. Celts of a 
different order. 

His own home in the Wicklow Mountains, in the heart of Leinster, was as 
close as he would go to the south. He had travelled north and west from 
there and was east of that now. He longed for the privacy of his home on 
the Blackstairs. He longed for the security of its seclusion, the ancient 
holy ground there was nearly as old as that on Tara Hill. It had been a 
long time since he had been North to Ulster.... and he didn't dare go to 
Connact. The Darke Queen of Cruachain kept her Rath and host there.

The Tuaths of Laigin it would be. Refuge and a place to learn more. He 
wanted, above all else, to learn more. The Morrigan and Medb would 
find him sooner or later. Of that, he had no doubt. But he felt that if he 
were to survive this then he would have to do it on different terms. He 
would fight them, as they had fought him. In numbers.

Ciaran was hungry and tired. In the wilderness he could hunt or trap and 
also forage. But this was a place where the animals would not come 
unless they were someone's possession to barter.

He had very little to barter with. And any of the things he did have, 
nobody else would want, save perhaps for his prized sword. It would 
surely get him him food and lodging and new clothing, but he knew 
better than to part with it. It might give him enough to settle down  for a 
normal man's life... but he couldn't and wouldn't trade it.

The blade had been given to him by his father, and he had carried it into 
battle himself ever after his own father had passed it on to him. It was 
told to him that it went further back than that. The blade was old and had 
a story all it's own. It was Bas Cuarto, the Death Seeker. It was also the 
only piece of Ciaran's old life that he still owned. He wouldn't part with 
it... especially since it was the only defense against other immortals.

As he wandered the roads and streets of the village his eyes continually 
looked to the hill of Tara. He wanted to go there and sleep, but he knew 
the Druids and the Filid of the Laigin would allow for nothing more than a 
visit. He was not a citizen of the Laigin Tuaths.

With his needs now in the forefront of his mind, he set himself to figure a 
way to achieve them. He needed food, shelter, and clothing to replace 
his terribly stained and battle worn tunic, and perhaps a new cloak as 
well.

With nothing to use as barter, he could not hope to get more than some 
hospitality from the Brughaid. That much was law, Brehon Law... the 
Feinechus. Thus he could count on a bowl of broth and a piece of bread 
with a bit of water. He could better the meal with a contract of a night's 
tale for the gathered crowd. He could also learn more of the current 
state of things and how the great northern wars were going.

But, one or two nights would amount to little if he couldn't secure 
something more lasting. He knew that he could barter his sword arm to 
the Laigin Chiefs or perhaps even the king. He was good enough to do 
it, if he could get a chance to prove himself. And again, the publican 
house seemed the place to meet and catch someone's attention. 

But he was a sorry sight of a man, hardly fitting for the likes of those that 
wandered the streets with him. His clothing was in bad repair and 
threadbare. His tunic had been torn with spear and sword. His sandals 
were worn badly to the sole. He smelled worse than a goat, and his hair 
was unruly on his head and face. It would be tough to get anyone to 
listen to him and more likely that he would be pitched from the publican's 
the moment he spoke to seek work.

But the rewards, should he get accepted, were too great to pass up. He 
would get all the basics he sought. Food and drink, and clothes and a 
place to sleep, but more importantly. He would gain Celi... companions 
of a like mind. Friends to support him and defend him. Perhaps later, 
friends to join him on a special quest to Connact. And lastly, women. He 
wanted to share some time with the pretty ladies again... It had been too 
long since he had slept with a fine woman in a fine place.

Ciaran walked the streets, listening to the talk of those around him. 
Trying to find out who was here, that would be likely looking to hire 
freeswords like himself. He wanted to have as much information so he 
could make a decision from there.

When he had no more desire to wander and listen, he took what he had 
learned and made for the central Publican's house in Tara. Hopefully he 
could find someone with enough status to take talk of him to the Rath of 
the Laigin King or any other who shared the noble's hospitality.

He walked into the place and made his way to the man who stood 
behind the taps. The man maintained an air of distinction and pride. He 
requested hospitality. 

"...And kind sir," he continued, "I seek to better the fare with an offering 
of a tale from far to the North. Ulster. A tale of a man's love for a woman 
and how his love for her would cost him his life when faced with a 
jealous queen. The fall of the Hound of Ulster... My own mother related 
this tale to me, for my father himself died at the side of Seatanta, and 
she knew the tragedy from first hand...."

He hoped that he could spark the man's attention to hear him out and 
offer him some of his finest. It was a chance to keep his foot in the door. 
Laigin had been Neutral while Medb had garnered support from many 
others. It was rumored that Lagin Tuath had no love for the Connact 
Queen. Though they didn't much care for Conchobar Mac Nessa either.

<><><><><>

[GM]

The man listens with some interest, an interest which is piqued further 
by mention of the Hound of Ulster.

"Indeed?" he asks. "Aye, there are many stories of Cuculainn now, his 
story will be one that will live through the ages, it seems. But if you have 
a new one to tell, it may be worth listening to, especially if it happens to 
be a true one."

He frowns at your unsavory appearance. "However, you might do to take 
yourself down to the river and wash some of your travels off of you, 
before you plan to present yourself to an audience, aye?"

<><><><><>

"Aye, as true as I know how to tell," spoke Ciaran as he closed the deal. 
With the mention of a bath in the river he nodded to the man.

"I will make the river avail itself to me for a washing for I can't stand 
myself either," he said with a hearty laugh and he patted the man upon 
the shoulder. "Perhaps a trim of the beard as well, as there are many a 
lass in the town."

With a wink he turned from the man and made his way for the exit. His 
manner light and airy, though his eyes looked carefully at those he 
passed. Ever aware that Medb could always be a step ahead.

He headed in the direction of the banks of the Boyne. He slipped by 
people acting as unobtrusive as he could. He knew that going away from 
Tara Village could mean trouble. A trap that lay in wait. He trusted only 
himself. 

Once clear of the sight of the Village proper, he drew his sword and 
continued to the banks. He needed to take a chance, for he needed to 
get hired on and he needed a good meal and drink. 

The closer he got, the more careful he moved. Searching with all his 
senses. He looked for fresh signs of passage, knowing that the whole of 
the place was frequented by those from the village. Sounds and stirrings 
in the brush. If he could hear the birds that made the banks and near 
trees their home, then he felt that he was safe. When the sounds faded, 
then trouble would be at hand. Lastly, the sensation of the Quickening. 
An Immortal such as the Morrigan was likely to move without stirring the 
animals to flight or silence. 

He walked until he found an acceptable place that he could bathe. 
Sword at the ready.

<><><><><>

[GM]

The river is clean and wide, and while there are others at its banks to 
wash or fill water jugs and skins, you have no difficulty walking a ways 
off to bathe. It feels wonderful to finally dislodge the encrusted muck and 
sweat from your skin and clothes (though your clothes, unfortunately, 
have absorbed enough of the accumulated ordure that they will remain 
less presentable than a man hoping to find female companionship might 
like.)

As you are emerging from the water, you see a large raven walking on 
the opposite bank. Its head bobs this way and that, and it flutters its 
wings briefly, in a raven-like manner.

There have to be more ravens than people in Ireland. Not every raven 
you see can be the Morrigan. Nonetheless, you feel a mixture of relief 
and lingering wariness as another raven flies overhead and the bird you 
were watching takes off to join the second, the pair of them flapping 
away towards a nearby encampment, which probably promises more 
food for the scavenging fowl than the bathing man who briefly caught the 
attention of one.

<><><><><>

Following, with a wary eye, the two ravens that made him uncomfortable. 
He slipped from the water and swept the excess water from his body and 
wrung his hair out and finger combed it. He dressed quickly, with a hand 
close to his blade.

The encampment required he at least take a look. Curiosity was a stern 
mistress, but he wouldn't have seen it had he not been tracking the flight 
of the ravens. And ravens were a rather sore subject for Ciaran.

He refused to allow the thought that these dark winged birds were not a 
portent, and a bad one at that.

He picked up his sword and began to make his way towards the fringes 
of the encampment. Moving quietly and carefully, he picked his way 
through the undebrush to get close. He sought to study the terrain to 
look for perimeter guards or a wandering patrol. And concealing himself 
whenever he felt the need or desire to pause and wait and study.

<><><><><>

[GM]

This camp has a fair number of warriors, but it does not look extremely 
security-conscious. Men wander in and out freely, and riders come 
trotting down the road from Tara as you watch. There are some women 
in the camp also, mostly preparing food and seeing to the tents, but a 
few would appear to be camp followers. It looks like a typical band of 
warriors and their kinfolk come here to seek their fortunes, looking for 
employment by one of the many kings who recruits for their army in 
Tara.

You can't immediately discern what kingdom they are from, but the 
clothes and equipment are similar enough to what you've seen around 
Tara that they're probably locals, or from not too far away.

One of the ravens is perched on a tent, squawking at a woman whose 
inconvenient presence is hindering its desire to snatch some meat from 
a spit that she's tending.

<><><><><>

Carefully the man named Ciaran moves through the brush and the 
concealing terrain to work his way closer to a path that would lead him 
into the camp, but if he had to leave he could continue the same 
direction and head back for Tara.

Once he reached it, he slipped the blade back into the holder on his 
back. He waited for the opportune moment and stepped out onto the 
path and began walking towards the camp, as if he had been walking 
the path for some time. 

The thought of the Raven bothered him, and he kept his mind alert. 
Coming down the middle of them, was probably not the brightest idea, 
but he was terribly tired of skulking in the brush and living like an animal, 
afraid of every shadow and every black bird he saw.

He could take steps to deal with the shadow thing, but the distrust of 
Ravens was not something he could easily dismiss. He felt for the 
stirrings in the quickening. The Morrigan could somehow keep her 
presence minimal and still be right on top of you. Ciaran suspected it 
was something to do with the druidic shifting from the Raven form that 
helped this. The knowledge did not comfort him any... But he kept 
himself as alert as possible.

And he approached the camp, to see what interest they took in him. He 
struck up a tune and whistled in time with his steps. He smiled to any 
who looked and introduced himself ,simply, as Ciaran of Blackstairs to 
any who seemed inclined to listen.

<><><><><>

[GM]

The camp is, as you surmised, a band of unalligned Laigin warriors and 
their families. They are hospitable enough when they see you, though a 
bit wary at first, as people tend to be when a strange warrior 
approaches. The ravens fly off as you're speaking to the woman you first 
saw, the wife of the leader of this band. She and her husband share a 
bite to eat with you, and you manage to pick up a bit of local gossip, and 
rumors of feuds developing into full-scale war that will soon mean jobs.

They are courteous, but in polite manner make it clear they aren't 
looking to recruit anyone. You see nothing else around the camp to 
merit any particular interest in this band; it's like scores of others come 
to Tara, like you, seeking a chance for glory and fortune.

As the shadows grow long, you take your leave and make your way back 
to the Publican house, where a warm fire and a meal, and your turn to 
tell a story, await.

<><><><><>

[GM]

With a surer step he walked quickly through the streets and through the 
crowding warriors and ladies, many of them armed as well, to find his 
way back to the publican house.

With a light smile and a good nature he moved through the crowds on 
the inside, his eyes searching the room for the Bruighead. Finally he 
drew up a wenching lass and pulled her close to him. He looked down at 
her with mirth and a pleasant cheer. This was a night for such an 
attitude and her own enjoyment of the evening was not to be spoiled. He 
quickly whispered his intentions to her so as not to alarm her with his 
untoward advance.

She smelled sweetly of a fine soap and perfume, or perhaps it was just 
his imagination running away with him. It mattered not, for he found her 
attractive, although a bit young... 

*What was young, when you never grow old...*

Every woman that he found attractive was likely to be younger than him, 
save for Scathach. He looked into her eyes, and relished the purity of 
her grace and feminity. So many years without. It furthered his resolve to 
make a life for himself that consisted of more than hiding in the woods or 
in a castle on holy ground in the remote reaches of the Wicklow 
Mountains atop a mysterious peak called Blackstairs. It was definitely 
time to rejoin the world. 


"I am seeking the publican," he told her over the din of the surrounding 
party. His eyes held hers and he certainly did not disguise the fact that 
he was interested in her, but he spoke his primary interest first. "We 
have struck an arrangement for an evening's meal and my telling of a 
tale... Where might he be found?"

He let her go to stand freely before him, he had her attention and that 
was sufficient. It was certainly within her right to decide that his general 
beggared appearance made him an unsuitable consideration. 

<><><><><>

[GM]

The black-haired lass eyes you curiously, surveying your threadbare 
garments. Her lips twitch slightly, pursing into a skeptical smile.

"The Publican is this way," she says, gesturing with an idle wave of her 
hand and moving in that direction. She sashays her hips slightly. "And 
out of idle curiousity, what might this tale you're to be telling concern, me 
brawny lad....?"

<><><><><>

"Idle curiosity it is, you say," he retorted with a grin. "And if I am to tell 
you what my story is about, perhaps you'll not want to hear it... and that 
would be a pity... but then again, if I don't give you something to whet 
the appetite, you might not be inclined to make your appearance in the 
room. And more is the pity then.... my comely lass."

He followed her lead and continued to speak as he walked, though his 
eyes did not fail to notice her purposeful swing of hip. Such a lovliness 
as he had not seen in some time.

*Never trust a woman.*

The words haunted him. But they were a truth he could not ignore.

"Lass, I have heard tell of the stories of the Dread Hound of Ulster, and I 
know these things because my father stood with the man himself, and 
fell with the man at Murthemney. My mother was carrying me then. My 
tales be told from what she knew and saw."

<><><><><>

[GM]

"Indeed?" She arches an eyebrow as she looks back at you. "It sounds 
like a tale to hear, then!"

She is already catching the elbow of the man you spoke to earlier, who 
looks up and smiles affably at you. "Well, the river's done a world of 
good for you, hasn't it, lad?"

"Now then, here's food, help yourself, and I see you're already looking to 
sate other appetites, but that's not part of OUR bargain." He grins at the 
dark-haired serving wench, who kicks the Publican in the shin, then half-
rolls her eyes, half-winks at you. The Publican ignores the kick. "You 
can listen to the Sidhe tales old Liam is telling, when he runs out of 
breath...which won't be soon....it's your turn, aye?"

<><><><><>

The man was hospitable and greeted him warmly upon his return from 
the river. He slipped hisshoulder scabbard and set the heavy blade 
down against the chair he had been offered. He casts his eyes back to 
the woman and smiles. He spoke in a whisper so as not to disturb the 
man named Liam. The very old tales of the wild ones were a fond 
passion of his. The glory days of Lugh Lamfada and Nuada of the Silver 
Hand and Dagda and the Goddess herself, Danu... though in the south, 
she was more likely known as Anu the Earth Mother... But what did they 
know.

His eyes looked into hers and he wished he had time and the means to 
have trimmed the beard... but natural charm would have to make do.

*Now, If I can only find some of that,* he mused to himself.

"Please, do not burden yourself on my account this evening," he said to 
her in a soft tone, "there are many a custom here who have means to 
pay and credit with the house... I'll not be mindin' if you can pass my way 
but only a time or two... though I will know where you are at." He finsihed 
with a smile.

"I thnk you sir," he said as he looked to his host. "I will certainly be ready 
to do my turn and abide by my agreements and bonds... Your hospitality 
is most kind..."

Ciaran settled back, his blade handy, and lifted his knife to cut the meat 
and cheese. He soaked his bread in the meat juices and listened to 
Liam. The ale was of good quality and he told himself he would have to 
thank the Publican for the fine offerings since he had asked for 
hospitality...

<><><><><>

Tara, 8 A.D.


The serving wench casts teasing eyes on you, but does go off to attend 
to other diners here in the Publican house. You notice, however, that her 
gaze returns to you, along with a small smile, now and then.

Liam is a talented storyteller. He hasn't the professional range or poetic 
gift of a true bard, but he keeps his audience entertained with a 
moderately creative retelling of the coming of the Milesians.

Just as you believe he's done and you're to stand up next, a strange, 
wistful expression comes over the elder man, and he coughs and says 
"I'll be offering one more lay, if'n there are no objections?" Nods and 
cheers of assent prompt him to remain, and his voice seems to deepen 
as he begins reciting a more formal ballad, and here his voice ranges up 
and down with much greater facility than before...well enough to make 
you think that perhaps he was a bard once, or at least dreamed of being 
such...perhaps he was one of those unfortunates who was just not quite 
good enough. And the tale, you realize quickly, is a relatively new 
one.....

* * * * * * * * * *

"On Cluan Fraoich a friend doth sigh
Where doth lie a warrior low
On his bier ;
And his moan makes warriors grieve
And bereft of love his spouse.
For Idad's son she doth keen
For whom is named Cairn Laive :
Froach mac Idad of soft locks,
Idad's son of raven hair.
Westward there lies Fraoch mac Idad
Who fulfilled proud Mève's behest.
On Cruachan Sídh a mother weeps :
Sad the tale -- a mother's wail
She grieves sore for Fraoch her son.
Many a field in strifes of old
He had won and behold
Fraoch mac Idad lieth cold.

To Cluan Fraoich comes Find-abair :
She doth weep -- a sad ladye ;
With tresses soft and curling locks
And her hand
Of Queen Mève proud heroes sought.
Find-abair of golden hair
Ailill's one daughter she
Lies side by Fraoch to-night :
Of many loved, of many sought
But never a love
But Fraoch had Find-abair.

Her cause of hatred unprovoked Mève found
For Fraoch the best of knights,
Bravest and friendliest :
When love for him she found
Her passion he did scorn
And hence his wound :
Fraoch lies a corpse to-night
Great was the wrong thus wrought by Mève :
Simply we still unfold
The story old :
(With woman-kind side not in ill)
His death her scheme foretold.
	(On Cluan Fraoich a friend doth sigh.)

	.....

A rowan tree grew on Loch Mève--
   Southwards is seen the shore--
Every fourth and every month
   Ripe fruit the rowan bore :
Fruit more sweet than honey-comb,
Its clusters' virtues strong,
Its berries red could one but taste
Hunger they staved off long.
Its berries' juice and fruit when red
For a year would life prolong :
From dread disease it gave relief
If what is told be our belief.

Yet though it proved a means of life
   Peril lay closely nigh ;
Coiled by its root a dragon lay
   Forbidding passage by.

A messenger for Fraoch was sent
   By Eochaidh's daughter keen--
When sickness sore Mève rent :
   "What ails?" quoth Fraoch, "the Queen?"

And Eochaidh's daughter made reply--
   Eochaidh of the festive horns--
That ne'er would she be whole
  Till her soft palm were full
Of berries from the island in the lake--
   Fraoch's hand alone to pull.

"Such I ne'er cull'd," said Idad's son
   Of blushing face ;
"Yet will I what I yet ne'er willed,"
   Quoth Fraoch, out of grace

Sir Fraoch moved forward to his fate
   Forth to the lake and swam the tide ;
He found asleep the dragon-snake
   Around the tree, mouth open wide.
	(On Cluan Fraoich a friend doth sigh.)

	.....

Fraoch, Idad's son, of weapon keen
   Of the beast being unperceived,
Of berries red a lapful brought
   Mève's longing to relieve.

"Though good be that which thou hast
   brought,"
   Quoth Mève of form so fair,
"Nought relieves, O Champion bold
   Save branch from trunk thou bear."

Fraoch gave consent : no fear he knew
   But swam the lake once more :
But hero never yet did pass
   The fate for him in store.

The rowan by the top he seized
   From root he pulled the tree ;
And the monster of the lake perceived
   As Fraoch from the land made free.

With his gaping maw the hero's hand
   He seized in the liquid tide :
Froach seized the monster by the jaw,
   Would a knife were by his side!

Find-abair of lovely tresses
   For Sir Fraoch her love,
Unperceived, a knife she bore ;
   Fraoch's fair skin the monster tore
      And gnawing shore his arm away.

Fraoch, Idad's son, in conflict dire
   With the monster's woeful ire :
On the southern strand they fought and fell
   And blood the boulders dyed.

Nor short the conflict: in his hand
   Fraoch held the monster's head ;
Which when the maiden did perceive
   On the strand she swooned as dead.

The maid then spake as she awoke--
   In her palm his hand she placed,
"Though now but food for birds-of-prey,
   Thy renown on earth is traced."

And from the death the hero died
   The lake doth take its name ;
For ever is it hight Loch Mève,
   And thus resounds his fame.
	(On Cluan Froich a friend doth sigh.)

	-from "The Geste of Fraoch"

* * * * * * * * * *

Liam finishes his tale, and wipes perspiration off his brow. His eyes rest 
on you for a moment, then he sits down and calls for some ale, which 
the lass with whom you've been making eyes at all evening brings.

<><><><><>

Ciaran stands slowly and bows with a great respect for the teller. He 
allows a moment to linger so that all might acknowledge his bardic skill. 
He steps forward and around his own table, taking up his blade from the 
crook in the adjacent chair where he had laid it.

*Keep it with you at all times,* he thought as he rememered the lessons 
in staying alive. He made no indication to draw but rather to carry it with 
him to the area where the old man named Liam had spoke his piece.

He offered a warm smile to the man and a warmer one to the young lass, 
letting his eyes wander over her curves. His attention drifted back to 
Liam as he came close to speak.

"That, good sir, was a telling that spoke heartily of the soul of man... in 
conflict... in love... and betrayed... most excellently told at that... you 
obviously are a man of the Filidh... I bow before you and can only hope 
to offer a tale to honor that spirit which you have engendered this 
evening. Anything I do to speak this night will be an injustice to the skills 
you have demonstrated... I ask humbly, in advance, that you not take 
offense at my meager offering."

He made a short bow and looked at the man again, his face warmed with 
a smile of offered friendship and congenial warmth.

"My name Ciaran... of Ulster," he said with an arm outstretched to clasp 
the man's wrist if offered.

<><><><><>

[GM]

The "older" man smiles slightly. "No Filidh I," he says. "Only an old man 
who has learned to tell a tale or two by necessity, having been driven 
from my home of Connacht." His expression is bitter for a moment, and 
you get an inkling of why his final tale is such an unflattering one about 
the Dark Queen of that province...even if he consciously uses the 
western pronounciation of her name.

"Liam....once of Connacht, now of Tara." He grasps your wrist. "I am 
sure your tale will a fine one, youngster. I look forward to hearing 
someone else speak while *I* wet my throat!" He laughs, and lifts his ale 
mug before sitting and taking a long draught.

<><><><><>

Ciaran leans his sheathed blade against a chair at the old man's table 
and sets his fired clay mug on the table.

"Well enough," he said to the older man. "I will do my best."

Ciaran turned to the room itself, still standing. He had addressed many 
men and women at gatherings at the dun in the past. This wasn't really 
all that different... then again it was. These faces were unfamiliar to him. 
Expecting him to entertain... Expecting to hear his story.

It was a long moment of anticipation as he looked at them, looking at 
him. Finally he broke the uncomfortable silence with a few tentative 
words to build his confidence.

"It... It isn't too hard to see that I'm not used to this... and will do the best 
I can.... My story, the one I want to start with.... will... will be a piece to 
continue the mood set by Liam of Tara.... Let's all have a draught and a 
wee drop to Liam and his stories...."

Ciaran lifted his mug and took a healthy drink before setting it back 
down. The eyes upon him were no less sternly demanding, and although 
many participated in his toast... most did it out of respect for Liam.

He licked his dry lips and spoke.

"I will tell you of Cuculhain. Of what I learned of him. It is hardly all there 
is, but I grant you this... it is of a truth that is greater than any other tale I 
have heard about him. Seatanta was brave and fierce and loyal beyond 
compare.... No greater a devotion was ever expressed by any warrior 
than this one. For his land, his king, his women, his friends and those he 
commanded. He was fair of skin with a fiery mane and blessed with the 
Hero's Light about him. Born to be a legend and said to have been sired 
by a God.... This I don't know, but Lugh Lamfada surely watched over 
him."

It was slow in building, but Ciaran's confidence was growing with each 
word of each sentence he spoke.

"The boy who was a man bore a terrible weight of responsibility... but 
with his natural gifts and the prowess he was granted by birth came that 
as a measure of payment. He was a man of confidence that many 
mistook for arrogance, and though he was aloof, he was truly a humble 
and reserved and generous soul to his kin and clan and liege.... and the 
fairer sex," he said with a wry grin to the bustling serving wench.

"He knew early on that he carried the burden of Prohecy and that the 
future of Ulster rested upon his shoulders... This of times blinded him to 
things of seeming insignificance... Alas this would be his undoing.... He 
met an old crone when he was young and she stood to challenge him... 
and he refused to acknowledge her or take her seriously... for she was 
an old crone, and great matters weighed upon him. Now many of you in 
the wisdom of your seats before me can know what he didn't know 
then... but you were not him and not there... but rather the telling of this 
tale may have already graced this room or some other you have 
frequented, and thereby you know this was no ordianry crone... but 
rather the Morrigan come to see if the hero deserved her favor and 
attention. He would later tell, that he wished to have had the wisdom 
then and a clearer mind to have seen her for what she represented. She 
gave him only one chance... he failed it and would then be plagued with 
her darker attention and ire. He would be plagued until the day he died 
at Murthemney."

He took a quick drink, eager to return to his tale as it had hardly begun. 
He could feel the story in him, more than hearing his own words. They 
began to blur in his mind in favor of the cadence of the story.

"The Morrigan wouldn't be the only woman he set against himself. While 
there were scores and scores of those who adored him, and one whose 
love was greater than the magic of Danu. Of her I will speak in a few... 
But the ones who hated and hunted him were powerful. The Morrigan 
stood over him like a daunting raven's shadow to light the way for Medb 
to find him. Hunt him, she did, with champions culled from all parts of 
Eire. All the great kingdoms had hereos, but Cuculhain bested them time 
and time again... and this drove the fey Queen mad with rage. The 
sought witches and dark druids to do her bidding and powerful spells 
were laid, but time and time again... the Leader of the Red Branch 
Knights prevailed. Now, perhaps the Darke Queen's anger could better 
be understood if I told you why she she hunted the Hound Of Ulster. No 
one will ever know for sure, but it was said and I know this as well I know 
anything.... She desired him... she wanted him to be her champion  and 
her lover... but he had a greater love... a truer one, and would not yield 
to her attentions. Her anger at being spurned became an obsession, one 
that would kill many good men.... both in Ulster and Connaught... and 
many from places who came to her call. Many a plot she devised of 
which I know you have heard... the Cattle Raid of Cooley... the 
abduction of the Hound's wife... the demon Aoife and her child born of 
Cuculhain... Many others... but that isn't what I wish to tell.... I tell the 
story behind the tales... the thoughts of a man, who knew he would 
die.... and with his death the Prophecy of the Troubles would become a 
reality. I tell of the darkness of the Queen of Connaught."

Ciaran continued to speak in this vain, to tell of his friendship with 
Seatanta, careful to couch it in terms of his father and mother's 
experiences with the Hound. He spoke of trales that only he and his 
friend had shred in confidences of the night riding horses home to Emain 
Macha to see his wife and Ciaran's own lady. He recounted battles he 
had taken part in and kept the focus of the Hound, for that was what the 
crowd wanted to hear. He told of the Champions of Eire who came at the 
Hound and he told of the darkest plans set by Medb... the Daughters of 
Calatin and Aoife's revenge upon him that drove the young hero to the 
brink of his sanity... He told of the final heroic stand that the hero made 
as he bought time for his comrades to overcome the dark sorceries to 
join him at Murthemney.... He told them of a conversation on the night 
previous to a fateful day when the Hound would die and as Ciaran told it, 
so would his own sire... He allowed the crowd see into a private side of 
the Hound that few truly ever saw... or heard of. It would likely be 
something that would slide away into the depths of time, but it was a 
piece of a great and epic story that no one knew, save those close to the 
Dread Hound of Ulster. He closed his telling by hinting there there was a 
great deal more to be said about the many vignettes, but the telling of 
them could take more hours than he had in one night or even two... 
three.... perhaps more.

He did not know how long he spoke his tale, nor how many times he 
reached for his mug... ever full. He didn't care, the story and the feeling 
it gave him were more important to him than the time it took to tell it. He 
only hoped that the hours it took to do it were worth what generosity had 
been extended on his behalf.

<><><><><>

[GM]

The fire begins to burn low, and everyone has fallen silent as your tale 
goes on, late into the night. When you finally stop, there is barely a 
sound.

Finally, Liam raises his mug, and says "Well told, lad!" Cheers of assent 
echo around the Publican house. Accompanied by many yawns, and a 
fair number of the revelers begin to pick up and go, held here this long 
by your tale of Cuculainn, and now ready to go to bed. There are others, 
of course, who will be here until dawn or afterwards.

Liam nods to you and says in a lower voice, "You have a talent for telling 
a tale as if you were there, lad. Your parents must have told you much 
about Cuculainn, because I could almost believe you'd known the man 
yourself. I never met the man, but I have seen Medb, and her part in 
your tale agrees with everything I know of the Dark Queen. A more 
alluring and treacherous woman there never was."

The girl you've been flirting with since the evening began appears at 
your elbow, looking fatigued, but still offers you a smile. "It was a fine 
tale," she agrees. "I heard of the Hound of Ulster from my grandpa, and 
then many more stories since, until he's almost become more god than 
man." She blinks wearily. "I hear Queen Medb is still very beautiful, but 
how can that be? If she was beautiful, but had daughters old enough to 
marry in Cuculainn's time, she must be an old woman now!"

<><><><><>

Ciaran turns to face the old man. A smile warms his face as the man 
credits him with a measure of talent, and the inner truth of it brings a 
smile to his face as well. He did know the man. He knew him better than 
most, perhaps all, even Emer... maybe, maybe not. But Seatanta was his 
first mentor. It had been the Hound's nod of approval that allowed him to 
become a member og the Red Branch Knights, despite his father's 
reputation in that elite organization.

"Liam," he said as he extended a hand to the man, "I did the best I knew 
how and tried to add some depth to what you began. A balance of sort.... 
Aye... Your experience was that of the side of Connaught... and mine 
was Ulster... a tale is complete. I thank you for you kind words of 
approval."

He looked to say more until he saw the young lass coming his way. He 
nodded so that Liam would see where his attention had wandered to.

"I would talk more with you, but I think it might wait as well you might 
understand," he said with a conspiratorial wink.

He slipped his arm around her as she began to speak.  He leaned over 
enough to pick up his blade and slung it over his shoulder.

Of cuculhain, he responds:

"From what I know and have heard, he was a man... a strong and 
powerful one, but he had his flaws. His tale will last forever as will the 
prophecy that followed him in death. And as time draws on, I'm sure that 
his tale will grow with each telling... and of that I might even be guilty to 
some unforseen degree."

When she spoke of the Darke Queen, he looked into her tired eyes. He 
wanted her full attention. He wanted to understand her thoughts as they 
played across her eyes. She was a woman, and Ciaran was not ignorant 
that she could be a potential enemy. But, he would not live in fear of 
every female he met. He would take care, never to underestimate any of 
them... ever. He smiled to her, warmly... enticingly.

"Aye lass... she should be old... but to my knowledge... she has no 
daughters that are her own by birth... And I have heard tell that she is of 
very old blood... Fey blood. Born of the Tuatha de Danaan perhaps."

<><><><><>

[GM]

Liam smiles an old man's smile, and moves away as the serving wench 
approaches.

She listens to you, and her eyes widen when you mention Medb's 
alleged Fey blood. "So she really could be a sorceress then?" she 
breathes. "Ooh, but then any woman who holds power over men, they 
accuse of being a sorceress, isn't that also true?" Her expression shifts 
to one of slight impudence, her eyes teasing.

"Well, Ciaran of Ulster, just where were you planning to sleep tonight?" 
Her eyes sparkle and suggest possibilities. Then her nose wrinkles and 
her gaze moves away from your face, and she reaches a hand out and 
brushes her fingertips against the scabbard of your sword. "And do ye 
keep this by your person *everywhere*?"

<><><><><>

He looks at her for a moment and a smile crosses his bearded face. She 
is a smart woman with a flair for humor. She is attentive and sharp of 
mind. She listens well to what people say and learns. With a sword in 
her hand, she would be a dangerous foe.... and deadly if she knew how 
to use it.

He laughed.

"You think so... You think I call her Fey because I resent, like so many 
others do, the idea that she, a woman, can be so strong and powerful. 
Hardly even close to the truth. I think she can be so powerful nad 
deadly.... because she is a woman. A sorceress, Aye....perhaps that is 
so... For power she does have but not just over men... And if she does 
possess the arts due to some Fey blood, then one would hardly be 
wrong to call her such. And it is hardly fear that I feel that causes me to 
consider her warily.... But an understanding of what she has done with 
her power... and a well placed respect for the teachings of another 
woman of considerable power."

When she mentions sleeping arrangements, Ciaran acknowledges the 
acceptance of where this might lead with his attentive interest. He leans 
closely to her and brushes the hair from the side of her face to whisper 
in her ear.

"She calls me by my name, and knows full well that I haven't heard hers 
yet," he said looking about him and her in a teasing fashion as if he were 
telling his woe to imaginary passers-by. He then returns his attention 
fully upon her and focuses fully and narrows his eyes on hers. The look 
is nearly wolfish, but not menacing. A continuation of the seductive 
game that these two were playing out between them. 

"Considering lass... that I took a bath and washed my clothes because I 
had set eyes upon you... And hoping that my appearance be found 
attractive by you, I was hoping that you could make some 
arrangements... And as for this," he whispered, his voice returning to a 
cadence and pace, with his lips brushing ever so delicately on the lobe 
of her ear as he lifted the sword and scabbard, "It goes with me.... yes, 
everywhere... A habit, I'm afraid, I can not or will not surrender... but that 
bein' said... I must need to return this conversation back to you.... I think 
if I knew a name... I might be inclined to fall in love with you," he said still 
teasingly, seductively, and ever so close.

<><><><><>

[GM]

Her brow arches slightly. "You fall in love very easily, then, I'm 
thinking.....but it's a flattering notion, one we may discuss further." She 
moves away from you slightly.

"My name is Britta", she says. "And I live in a wee hut that barely has 
room for me, but if you're not needing too much room to stretch, might 
have room for you *and* your sword, tonight." She sighs and looks 
around at the tables, with men still sitting at them drinking. "I can't leave 
yet, though. I promised Ogden and my friend Nuamna, there, with the 
yellow hair, that I'd help clean up. And you-" she laughs and puts a hand 
on your chest, "are becoming a bit of a distraction." She blushes. "And 
I'd as soon clean me own self up a bit before....lying down to sleep. I've 
been here all day myself." She does look somewhat bedraggled, with 
food stains and spilled ale on her clothes, and her hair plastered to her 
face.

"If I tell you the way, would you mind terribly going ahead, and waiting 
for me? I'll only be a little bit longer here, then I'll make a quick trip to the 
river....and if you're still waiting for me when I come home, then maybe 
women do have some power over men, hmm?" Her eyes twinkle.

<><><><><>

Ciaran smiled warmly at her.

"Of course lass... Britta... I would certainly go on ahead... and I will be 
there waiting for ye," he said as he released her hand from his own. 

"Tell me the way so that I do not linger on here and delay this 
evening's... rest," he said with a light grin.

After she told him the route to take, he quickly drew her to him him and 
kissed her fully on the mouth and released her as quickly to continue 
with her duties.

"I'll be waiting," he whispered.

With that he stepped around the table and made his way to the 
Bruighead to speak a few short words.

"It was most kind and humble of you to have made hospitality for me. I 
hope that my tale this evening was worth what you extended me..."

He left the tavern after his short speak with the man and set out upon 
the street towards Britta's hut. He reached back and slipped the knot on 
his sword. 

*Aye, Britta,* he mused to himself as he walked on the earthen road, 
*You are a pretty lass, but I am a wary man... and I shan't be caught off 
guard... even by beguiling charm and the hope of slipping between your 
thighs.*

He slipped the leather sheath around so that the sword hung underneath 
his arm and he rested his right hand on the hilt of Bas Cuarto. He 
walked with purpose and alertness, hoping to be pleasantly surprised 
that this night will turn out as promised.

<><><><><>

[GM]

Following Britta's directions, you find the "wee hut" she described easily 
enough...it's not *quite* as humble as she indicated, being clean and 
well-maintained, but it certainly is a one-person dwelling.

You enter, and sit down, and wait....and wait....and wait.

And finally hear footsteps approaching....but they aren't a woman's light 
footsteps. On the other hand, whoever approaches doesn't sound like 
they're making much attempt to be stealthy either.

<><><><><>

Ciaran stood quickly and slipped the blade from its scabbard. He 
inwardly acknowledged that this was likely the outcome he expected this 
evening to present him with. He preferred making love over the prospect 
of battle, but given the obvious lack of the former this evening, he would 
settle for the latter. It was a workout and a bit of sweat either way. 

He doused the single candle that served to give him light in the small 
room and made for the door. The hut was too small to effectively swing 
the heavy bastard sword and he had no intention of being trapped 
inside. He at least wanted to see what was coming up the trail for him. 

He left the darkened hut to step into the cool darkness of the night to 
face whatever presented itself. He kept his sword low and hidden in his 
shadow, but ready to meet any strike that his instincts might sense.

<><><><><>

[GM]

The surprise you get when you step outside isn't quite the one you 
expected...it's Liam.

He steps back, looking startled, as you emerge. "Ah! Like to scare me 
half t' death, lad!" He clutches a hand to his chest, as if to simulate heart 
palpitations, but doesn't really look quite that distressed. He does, 
however, look very drunk. He looks around and lowers his voice. "Lad, I 
could be verrry wrong, and if so then I'm just an old man makin' a fool'a 
hisself, and I can live with that, but I think you an' Britta may both be in 
trouble....and the lass sooner than ye." He wobbles a little on his feet, 
and reaches a hand out to grab your shoulder and steady himself. 
"Whoops! Ah, what was I about, then? Oh yes...." he shakes his head. 
"Ye don't have any friends from Connacht, do ye?"

<><><><><>

"Speak clearly Liam.... Where is Britta and who has her.... I haven't the 
time for word games... You know well enough I have no friends in 
Connaught... less'n I count you... but even you might be working for 
Medb. Tell me what ya' know of it... of Britta... and these Connaughters... 
from the beginning."

The humor was gone. The battle hardened warrior stood in place of the 
teller of tales from Ulster. There was no mirth in his eyes as he stared 
hard at the old man. His swordarm was no longer hidden, but neither did 
he hold the blade to threaten Liam. all the same, it was just to let him 
know he was prepared.

<><><><><>

[GM]

Liam's eyes widen, then turn angry. "I- work for Medb!?" he spats. 
"Lissen boy, I knew ye'd probably gone ahead, I saw ye an' Britta hittin' it 
off and all..." he sways again.

"Och, one of those times I wish I'd drunk a wee bit less," he mutters, 
your impatience being insufficient to hurry him. "Ah yes, the 
beginning....after ye left, some knights of Connacht came into the 
Publican house. They've been civil enough, so no one has any cause to 
deny 'em hospitality. But they was circulatin' and askin' questions, mark 
me? I din't hear the questions, truth is, I tend to stay away from 
Connacht knights, if ye know what I mean? But after a few questions, 
they was keepin' real sharp eyes on Britta, and that gave me a baaad 
feeling, you follow me?" He looks down at your sword. "So, uh, there's 
no one there I coulda shared my misupper- masapre- mis-app-re-hen-
shuns, with, like I said, the Connachters ain't done nothin' YET, and 
there's no other warriors around that might do anything to stop 'em 
anyways....but Britta'll be leavin' any time, so I thought I better leave first 
and come warn ye...."

<><><><><>

He stepped impatiently as the old man took his sweet time in telling his 
newest tale. There would be no amount of badgering that would change 
this, and the very notion that the woman's life depended on how quickly 
he told his tale to Ciaran didn't seem to matter either.

"Thankyou Liam," he said hurriedly. "Stay here... I mean it... Stay here," 
he said with teeth gritted for emphasis.

The Ulsterman walked quickly, almost a jog, towards the Bruighead's 
that he had left earlier. He prepared himself mentally and kept his 
senses keenly focused. He searched for any stirrings in the Quickening. 
His sword, held firmly in his right hand, reflected the snatches of light 
from the few huts that still had some activity inside.

If she were truly in trouble and not setting him, then he needed to help 
her. He barely knew her but she did not deserve to get tangled up in his 
and Medb's fight. The Connaughter's wouldn't rest until they found him, 
and he was tired of running. He knew that this place would at least offer 
him some neutral ground. The westerner's were hated here in Tara, and 
the many men and women that came here hardly had any love for them 
either. Many had lost loved ones and homes and clans to Medb's 
madness.

He headed towards the Tavern to prevent another senseless act of 
violence from occurring. Make Love or kill Connaughters... It made the 
night go by.

<><><><><>

[GM]

Arriving at the tavern, you see neither Britta nor any Connacht knights. 
No Quickening alerts you. You remember her parting words, **then I'll 
make a quick trip to the river** Whether she's trying to lead you into a 
trap, or innocently being used as bait, she's certainly provided the 
Connachters (if they really exist) the perfect opportunity for an ambush.

<><><><><>

Ciaran considers his options for a moment. He knows that he will have 
to go to the river. Trap or no trap he will have to face them tonight. If she 
were innocent of setting him up, then the connaughters wouldn't likely 
expect him to be arriving there to challenge them. They would be there 
to grab the girl and use her as a bait in something more elaborate, 
perhaps to find out where she lived in hopes of finding him there. 
Another option, they had the girl, and they were forcing Liam to make a 
choice. The life of a friend against the life of a stranger. Ciaran knew the 
choice he would make. Liam was an old man who had lost the will to 
fight... perhaps. The possibility that she was setting him made him wary 
all the same.

He slipped into the tavern, and regardless of who was present he made 
his way over to the hearth and scooped a handful of ash. It wasn't a 
pleasant prospect after bathing, but he smeared the soot over his face 
and skin, carefully working it around his eyes. With a bit of his tunic he 
tied up his black hair and sooted his steel so that it no longer reflected 
light.

Time was of the essence for they might already have the information 
they needed and were on their way to her hut, to find the old man. Danu 
only knew whast harm they would inflict on him.

He slipped from the Tavern into the darkness of the night and began to 
exercise his skills at stealth and camouflage. He wended his way 
through the shadows and then the brush as he neared the river, a bit 
higher upriver than where the people of Tara normally bathed. He picked 
his way through the brush until he came to the river edge, carefully and 
quietly he moved south so that he could work his way along the bank 
and brush to catch a glimpse of them, her, or anyone... before they saw 
him.

He hoped that they would be inclined to indulge themselves in a bit of 
peeking before moving in on her, but once they did.... he didn't wish to 
think of what they might do to a woman in a secluded area.

He thought briefly that he should probably summon the people of the 
town that one of their own was in danger.... but, he couldn't know who to 
trust. Himself Alone.

He searched for them with every sense he had and every bit of 
Scathach's training. He was far better at this than they would ever be. 
But, they would never stop trying either.

<><><><><>

[GM]

You sneak quietly through the night....coming up undetected on a pair of 
mortals, in the middle of a large community like this, is much easier than 
trying to sneak up on Scathach in the midst of a wilderness that she 
knows like the back of her hand, for certain.

The person you detect first, though, is Britta. You're just barely in sight 
of the river when you spot her walking away from it. Her hair is tied up, 
and damp, but she walks with a spritely step. She, and the Connachters 
must have left almost on Liam's heels.

You're approaching her from an angle, and so spot another man 
shadowing her at a distance, slipping from shadow to shadow trying to 
remain unseen. If Britta knows she's being followed, she's doing a very 
good job of pretending to be unaware. Neither Britta nor her follower 
seem to have noticed you, crouching in a deep pool of shadow beneath 
a tree, past which Britta will walk in another minute.

<><><><><>

As black as the darkest of nights, he hung in the depths of the shadow. 
neither movement nor sound escaped. Ciaran trained too long and too 
hard to panic now.

He would wait until Britta had passed, then the follower. He would wait 
until the follower was just beyond him. Just far enough, and then only his 
sword would speak for him. He would aim his strike and time it with a 
step from the man to place both his feet on the ground. Just to the right 
of his backbone, and below the ribcage... with just a slight upwards 
thrust. He would drive the blade through the man's kidney and into his 
upperbody. Death would... should be instant and silent. If he executed it 
properly... No one would be the wiser.

One move at a time... the next would come... when it did.

And from the pool of liquid darkness he struck at the back of the man. 
Silent and deadly.

<><><><><>

[GM]

The man in front of you doesn't see you coming.....

But there was another man just behind him. These men are cautious, 
and good....maybe not as good as you, but Scathach would have some 
choice words for you right now, if she saw how you'd underestimated the 
mortals. A cry of warning alerts your victim, and he spins and throws 
himself backwards as he sees the point of your sword coming at him. 
Twenty paces behind, his companion comes running at you, sword 
drawn. Britta turns also, and gives a startled screech at the sudden 
melee developing in her wake.

<><><><><>

He no longer has time to worry about the other events around him. It 
was battle again, and likely a big one. He had to even the numbers 
quickly, before any others who may have been waiting in front of Britta's 
path came reach him.

He made a mistake... and one that could cost him his head, but he had 
to focus now on the battle at hand. What he wouldn't give for a gae 
bulga about now.....

He took two driving steps and thrust his blade sharply at the man's gut 
as he tried to backpeddle from him. He had to go down before he could 
get a weapon drawn.

The other still had a few paces to cover and draw. There was time. He 
had to rely on the darkness and his own ash covered concealment to 
keep the enemy from seeing him clearly.

Perhaps Britta's scream might give him the moment he needed to end 
the first opponent...

<><><><><>

[GM]

The man in front of you isn't able to back away quite far 
enough....lunging to take full advantage of Bas Cuartu's length, you 
thrust the point into his abdomen. He staggers and falls back, arms 
flailing, giving you a moment to step forward and finish him with an 
overhead stroke.

The other man is still running, then skids to a halt, just a few paces 
outside your melee range. The moonlight is shining on him, and on 
Britta, but he quickly realizes your canny positioning has made you 
almost invisible to him. He begins slowly backing away, squinting into 
the shadows where you crouch, holding his own bastard sword raised in 
a defensive stance.

All this happens in a few seconds. Then Britta begins screaming.

"HEEEELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!" She staggers back, then half-turns. 
"A WOMAN IN DISTRESS! CAN'T ANYONE HEAR ME!?" She yells for 
admirable dramatic effect, calculating what will hopefully bring any 
honorable men within earshot running. Not that too many honorable men 
would be lurking in the darkness around the river.

<><><><><>

He knew that he would have to leave the darkness to fight the man. He 
knew that the man wouldn't willingly enter the shadows and face an 
enemy he couldn't see. His advantage would be lost if he moved out of 
the darkness and into the moonlit foerst.

He hoped that the screams of Britta would panic any of the other 
Connachters, but the chances were even that they would come rushing 
in to silence her... thinking there tails had botched the job.

Ciaran could not spend too much time considering the possible 
outcomes of Britta's screaming, including the possibility that the honest 
men she sought would see him as another enemy and have a go at it.

He slipped his knife from the belt at his waist and flipped it lightly to hold 
it by the blade and hurled it at the man who was backing away from him. 
He then rushed him to follow through. His own cry was that of a Red 
Branch Knight in Battle.  His sword black with ash and coated in blood 
from the first man to fall this night.

He rushed to follow his darkness for as long as it protected his 
movements, blade arcing from overhead in cross body sweep. He 
needed to quiet Britta as soon as possible, but not before he finished the 
Connaught Knight.

<><><><><>

[GM]

Your knife misses- the warrior flinches as it whizzes past his shoulder, 
then whips his head back around as you come screaming out of the 
darkness.

His sword parry is too slow, and your bastard sword slashes down and 
cleaves his shoulder. His knees buckle under the impact, but he 
manages to remain standing, barely, staggering back desperately, 
holding his sword up in a feeble attempt to fend you off. So much blood 
sprays out of him as you whip your sword back that you know he's 
probably already dead, he just doesn't know it yet....but he could still 
hurt you before he figures it out.

A man with a massive shoulder wound makes a poor fighter, though....he 
never gets a chance to strike back, though he's stubborn, and it takes 
two more blows before he falls.

Your second opponent lies motionless on the ground, blood steadily 
seeping out of him. You turn, as Britta's screams abruptly change in 
pitch, from deep-throated wailing calculated to generate maximum 
volume, to a startled screech of surprise and dismay. There are indeed 
more men surging out of the shadows....at least four. And two are almost 
on Britta, far too close for you to reach her in time. You see a sword 
raised in the moonlight, then Britta's screams are abruptly cut off as the 
pommel of the sword, clenched in a gloved fist, slams down brutally 
against her temple, and she crumples like a child.

<><><><><>

He saw her go down, but could do nothing about it. Trusting her fate to 
her own Gods, Ciaran shifted his blade solely to his right hand and 
slipped into the darkness of the nearby Oaks.

There were four of them and one of him. They would not offer him any 
measure of honor, as he no longer fought by such conventions himself. 
He could hope to draw them into his territory. Make them pursue him. 
Make them fear the dark.

He didn't move very far. He could hear them. The sweat mixed with the 
soot to make a black paste that coated his skin. The blood of two men 
soaked in his clothes and on his skin and his steel, but even in 
moonlight the blood would appear black. He would take them one at a 
time, and all the better if they came after him. He reached down and 
picked up a small branch and tucked it in his belt, and then a rock that 
he could also hurl for a timely distraction.

If they were wise enough to hold their ground, he would move quietly 
and pick each step with deliberate care as he worked his way around 
them. One step at a time. A wraith that would hunt them down and kill 
them with prejudice.

<><><><><>

[GM]

Two of the Connachters begin following you into the darkness, but one 
man calls them back with a curt order. They pause, tensely, eager to 
engage the enemy like any true Celtic warrior, but their discipline holds, 
and they reluctantly return to the group.

"I know you're out there, Ulsterman!" the man who appears to be their 
leader calls out. "If you don't want to face us one-on-one, we'll hunt you 
down like a dog. But not here, not now."

He gestures, and mutters something. One of the men stoops, and picks 
up Britta, slinging her over his shoulders like a sack of grain. The four 
men begin walking away, still with weapons drawn, and maintaining a 
well-spaced square formation, watching each other's backs. They move 
out of the open, into the shadows, so they are no longer illuminated as 
easy targets in the moonlight.

<><><><><>

Ciaran sets himself to pursue the Connachters. Their intentions with 
Britta were unclear to him. Of what possible use could she be except as 
a means to lure him into a trap. He would have to follow, he got the 
woman into this trouble.... And what little personal honor he had left 
dictated that he get her out. A failing of his, no doubt.

The words of Scatach echoed his head, and he pushed it aside with a 
curse at her lack of humanity. Even the words of the Morrigan would not 
sway him from this course.

He tracked them through the woods, moving like a wraith. Four men with 
an unconcious woiman would not travel fast... until they came to their 
horses. He contemplated rushing them from the depths of the woods. He 
could parallel their path and cut them down. 

No, he dismissed that as an idea. They were alert to the possibility and 
surprise would be hard to come by. He could learn more by following 
them to their camp.

With his training and natural stealth he pursued them, keeping a vigil for 
any indocations that he was walking into a trap of their design. He 
altered where he walked, either the rear right or rear left, or even directly 
along their path.

<><><><><>

[GM]

The men aren't heading into the woods. They're walking back to town. 
The leader scouts ahead, to prevent the unlikely possibility of running 
into someone this late at night that might question a group of warriors 
carrying an unconscious woman, but they are skirting the edges of 
Tara's settlement. They appear to be heading towards Britta's hut.

<><><><><>

The purpose of it eludes him. But they seem intent on going to Britta's 
small dwelling. The place where he commanded old Liam to wait. That 
would only mean trouble. Liam would do something rash and these men 
would likely harm him rather than expose themselves. It was a 
dangerous thing for them to do, coming so close to Tara itself. 

As soon as Ciaran can determine their intentions, he cuts behind them 
and directly for the town of Tara itself. He uses the advantage of being 
alone and reasonably unencumbered to give him the time he needs. 
They will skirt the edge and come around the camps to reach her home 
as quietly as they can, this he assessed as their plan. The why of it 
didn't really matter just yet.... well it did, but it wasn't anything Ciaran  
could figure and time was more importantly spent.

Once in Tara, he turned out one of the narrow streets and ran through 
the darkness to the main street and then onto Britta's home. He had to 
get there before they could reach it. He would tell Liam to slip out and 
fetch some warriors, and to spread the word that there were 
Connachters who had taken the girl. A hometown girl. He would say that 
he defended her and took two down, but there were four others and 
maybe more coming. That would rile them up. Medb was not in any 
particular good favor in the Laiginn area of Eire. Of course, he could be 
wrong, and setting himself up, but he would deal with that later on.

He ran as hard as he could manage, and still keep some measure of 
quiet as he headed for her home. It dawned on him that this could be the 
trap. He left for her, charging blindly into the forest to rescue her and 
they would slip into her place and wait. They would lead him right into a 
trap waiting. There were definitely more than six of them when he last 
met the Connachters.... He would have to be wary. He would set up his 
tactics once he got within sight of the shadow of her home in the 
moonlight.

<><><><><>

[GM]

There isn't a lot of distance between here and Britta's home. By running 
all-out, you can beat them there, but as you arrive within sight of her 
small dwelling, you know you're just ahead of them, by a few scant 
minutes at best. There's light flickering at the edges of her doorway, 
indicating that someone has lit a small fire within.

<><><><><>

Ciaran slowed as he neared the hut. He was ahead of the four men, but 
he had no idea whether or not they were the only ones in the area. He 
kept to the shadows as he approached. He pulled the small rock from 
his tunic belt and wound up and heaved it at the hut. He aimed for the 
doorway, whoever was inside would be alerted to something if his aim 
was true. He didn't want to risk the trap, but he needed to get Liam's 
attention and get him running. 

The shadows cloaked him in their dark embrace. He waited with his 
sword in his left hand. It didn't matter which hand at the moment. He 
looked at the hut and into the moonlit reaches of the outskirts of Tara. 
He felt into the night for any indication of impending danger. And hoped 
his rock would bring someone's attention.

<><><><><>

[GM]

The rock smacks against the thin door of Britta's hovel. For a long 
moment, you think whoever is within didn't hear it, or isn't responding. 
Then you hear Liam's slurred voice, muffled through the door; "Huh? 
smmrrst'dor? Whazzzatt....?"

<><><><><>

The damn fool was going to get himself killed. He was blind drunk now, 
and following the last orders given. There wasn't time to change that. If 
he yelled out now, he would surely let the Connachters know he was 
there ahead of them. They would be insight in a moment. He had hoped 
that Liam had kept his wits.... And now he had to force his plans to adapt 
to protecting Liam as well. 

He could yell out to alert as many natives of Tara as he could... but if the 
connachters were not faced with him, then they might not show and take 
off into the woods. It was all timing from here.

He held his place and silence in the depths of the shadows at the edge 
of the road near another hovel. He would confront the Connachters once 
they had committed themselves to entering the outskirts of Tara. He had 
to get Britta safely away from them... Liam, with any luck, would just 
pass out now... or stumble and knock himself unconcious... with luck.

<><><><><>

[GM]

Very shortly, you hear footsteps, and the lead Connachter strides 
casually towards Britta's hovel, alert but with sword in its sheath. You 
can already see the man carrying Britta following behind.

<><><><><>

The timing of it....

So many things in balance. He watched them and he watched the lead, 
and there was the door to the hovel and Liam, and the fact that there 
may be others.

When they were all within sight, but before the lead could enter the 
hovel Ciaran will call out from the depths of the night shadows and 
confront them.

"WELCOME...Welcome to Tara," he said as he took the couple of steps 
to let a little moonlight fall upon him and his drawn weapon. He spoke 
loudly and slowly. He wanted to create enough sound to wake a few 
others.

"Brave Knights of Connaught... Lurking in the dark... skulking around.... 
carrying of one of Tara's own sweet Lasses... What possible use could 
Medb have for an innocent woman."

Another step.

"I suppose that you realize... this ends here... it ends now... You want 
me... let's do it, leave her out of this... Run now, and I'll hunt you like a 
wolf... and take you apart one at a time drom the darkest places... 
Connaught is a far place from here... Put Britta down.... Now."

<><><><><>

[GM]

The man carrying Britta obliges you immediately, dumping her heavily to 
the ground. The thump as she hits the dirt makes you want to wince. 
She doesn't move.

The leader steps forward, sword held at the ready, smiling sardonically.

"Run?" he asks. "Why would we want to run? I think you're confused 
about who's the hunter and who's the deer, Ulsterman."

He moves to almost within a swords' length of you. You feel a prickling 
at the back of your neck, and catch movement in the corner of your eye; 
the other three are already dispersing to all sides.

"If he doesn't stop yelling," the Connacht knight says in a clear, but not 
quite loud, voice, obviously for the benefit of his three comrades, "kill 
that girl."

He doesn't take his eyes off yours. "Queen Medb says you're a 
sorceror," he says. "She says mortal weapons can't slay you. I'm curious 
to find out if that's true. If you want to escape, here's your chance....you 
just have to get through me."