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Brigit had always been an early riser, but when her eyes snapped open this particular morning, she immediately wished they hadn't. The alcohol was taking its revenge and her head was throbbing painfully. Outside the tower the Hunters had provided for the Lutair liaisons, birds were singing and the sun was beginning to shine, but the pulled curtains left the room fairly dark. To her right, Eirioch's eyes were open, but he was not awake. His whole body was stiff, rigid, and she knew he was lost in frightful dreams of his own. Somehow, Brigit felt no sympathy for him. She could hardly shake the image of him holding his hand out as she fell from the tower in her dream. She had awoken just before hitting the ground, she knew, and there had been other horrors along the way, but he had been the worst part of her nightmare. Rubbing her temples, she pushed off her covers and climbed out of bed, ignoring the red and yellow of the sheets.

On the other side of the room, a pair of sconces held unlit torches and Brigit made her way to them. Expending a minute amount of heat from within her own body, she created a spark, illuminating the first and using it to ignite the other. She could have lit both on her own, but the air in the tower was already chill and she didn't wish to make herself colder than she already was. Once both torches were burning bright, she tapped into the Bodagh, moving the heat of the flames to the basin of water on the far side of the room. Immediately, both torches were extinguished, but the water was warm. Stripping down, she stepped into the bath, enjoying the warmth in comparison to the cold around her. She always found herself cold after sharing a bed with her betrothed.

Knowing it would be some time before Eirioch awoke from his sleepless sleep, the curse of his witchery, Brigit allowed herself a moment of peace. She soaked in the warm water, resting her head against the side while pulling her knees up against her chest. These small hours before her cousin rose were the only times she could be alone anymore, and she took refuge in her thoughts. Memories of Taigh an Leargaidh and Taigh an Croch before her cousin sold himself to the dark gods of Earisse, before his eyes were wrong. In her mind, she ran through the corridors of the castle, chased by a younger Eirioch. He giggled and stretched out his hands, trying to catch her, but she hardly smiled. To him, it was a game, but to her it was a competition. Every doorway or hallway she passed, she considered the benefits of turning or continuing straight. This one led to the kitchens and would provide good cover, but Ringean disliked being interrupted. Being little more than the cook, there was little he could do to punish the young Abthanes, but he was one of the few people in Taigh an Croch that Brigit tried not to inconvenience. The next led to the library, but there was only one door in and it would likely be a trap. This was the bedchamber of some cousin or another, that was the war room. Finally, she made a sharp left and appeared in an open courtyard at the center of the castle. Even in the cold of Innis Buidhe, the gardeners had managed to create a lovely display. Hardy plants of all shades of green filled the courtyard. Ivy climbed the walls, shrubs and trees sprouted and reached towards the dark Innisian sky and everywhere there was holly. At the center of the courtyard, Oisean sat with a young serving girl. His hand was on hers.

Brigit shook her head. This was hardly the sort of refuge she wanted. Instead of allowing herself another painful memory, Brigit picked up the simple sponge left beside the basin and began to scrub her body clean. Since leaving Innis Buidhe, she'd had little chance to clean herself. Either they had been on a ship or on the road to Cael Wal Llywd, and now that she could finally attend to her hygiene, she realized how much she had missed it. The Lutairs had always placed a great deal of stock in cleanliness, but in Taigh an Croch, there had been a bathhouse, a folctha, made available to all the nobles and visiting dignitaries from other, smaller clans. It had always smelled of lavender or sage, depending on which of the attendants had prepared it that morning. Whenever she bathed their, Brigit had made a point of not informing her cousin or any of her family members that she intended to go. It was her escape, even then.

Finally, Brigit pulled herself out of the bath, the water dripping off of her lithe, sinewy form. She toweled herself off with the tarry cloth that hung over the edge of the basin and left the damp cloth for Eirioch if he cared to use it when he rose. As she stepped over the edge of the bath, a wave of nausea struck Brigit like a punch in the stomach. Doubling over, her foot caught on the lip and she fell, hitting the cold, stone floor harder than she had expected. Her insides were waging a war with her and she had no idea how to fight back. She retched once, twice, cursing the sour wine she had consumed so much of the night before. On hands and knees, she pressed her forehead the stone floor. Her head was still throbbing, blood pounding in her ears. Her damned cousin had driven her to this with his mockery and his besmirching of the family name, and she wished she could make him pay. She knew she could not, but the thought of offering her own hand and he dropped out of sight brought a twisted smile to her lips. Another retch wiped it away, but the image had still brightened her mood somewhat. She slowly climbed to her feet, supporting herself with the nearby table.

Carefully, she dressed once again in a suit of furs and light leather, tailored to fit her instead of the typically male soldiers of Innis Buidhe. Embroidered with holly leaves, and accompanied by a brooch that displayed the argent stag of her family, her doublet was a reminder to her new companions that she was Fuil Ríar, the blood of old Lutair himself, and she was not to be trifled with lest she remind them all why her family dominated the north for centuries even before the arrival of the Shadow Beasts. A piece of polished silver left on the table allowed to her look herself over, and she hated what she saw.

Her short hair was professional, her raiment was noble and her body was surely that of a soldier, but her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks were flushed and she could scarcely contain her grimace. This was not the impression she had planned on making her in the south, but there was very little she could do about it. The Hunters likely already though her a rash fool after last night and it was unlikely that she would prove them wrong so soon. Her second chance would come later, she knew, and she would be prepared to take it. Running a hand through her hair, Brigit placed the silver back on the table and made her way to the dining hall yet again. This time though, she was alone.

When she arrived, several of her new companions were already there, eating. Viper and the asarlaí sat on one side, each looking as treacherous as they had the night before. Brigit made a point of sitting beside Aine, although she was fairly sure the woman would not welcome her company. The assassin was fully equipped, clearly prepared to leave whenever Amudar gave the word. A mask, something he hadn't carried the night before, sat on the table beside his plate. Brigit mused on just how flashy this self-styled killer was. An assassin in Innis Buidhe, had they bothered with such things, would have never dared to draw so much attention to himself. Back flips, eyes mícheart and frightening masks made stealth difficult. Perhaps this was why he had become a hunter now. Wild animals likely didn't notice the difference between one human and another.

The other, the witch, was dressed much more lavishly than the night before, his frail form now protected by a set of foul-looking, black armor. Engraved with skulls and the faces of Earissian demons, it was an altogether unsettling choice of attire. Brigit stared at him across the table, confused by his choice of clothing, and even more so by the pride he seemed to take in it. "Tell me, asarlaí, do all those chosen by Umbra have to wear such garish attire, or was that your own choice?" Without waiting for his reply, she continued. "I do not recall you offering your name last night. I doubt it will help much, but perhaps being able to call you something other than a witch will help me trust you better."
 
"And the Horned King gave us smaller gods to walk the earth, while he remained in the high throne of Sídhe."
-- The Speaker, Treatise of the Horned King

Eirioch dreamed fitfully, watching the world around him swirl and shape. He was in the Sidhe. That was something he knew. The Sidhe always took this form. In his dream, the world was grey and colourless, but he recognized it as his native homeland, the rolling hills and rocky crags of Innis Buidhe. There were thick forests fading on the horizon, a result of the narrowed atmospheric perspective that occurred due to the licks of fog that were sweeping all about him. Innis Buidhe should not be so barren, and so grey. There should be blue and green and colours - but there were none. There was only green and windswept plains of ash-coloured, barren earth. The sky was impossibly blue, the same blue as Brigit's eyes, of Lutair eyes. Stars sprinkled the sky, too many stars for any sky but here. There was a tradition in Innis Buidhe that the line of kings, upon their death, came to Sidhe to light the way for all other lost souls in the realm of the dead. Eirioch knew the truth - and the stars above only offered discomfort, no peace, no idea that his ancestors were benevolently watching him. They were watching him with hatred, with fear - Eirioch's eyes were wrong, and the Iar-Thanes knew this as well as he did. The Abthane began his walk forward, following the rocky crags and the stars in the sky. There was a path that stretched before him, made of silver stones set amongst thick clumps of grass that should have been green. The path looked as if it had been illuminated by the concentrated light of the moon. The stones on the path, Eirioch knew, were not actually stones. They were made of faces, human faces, shrunk down and polished. Eirioch was walking through what those of the mainland called Hell. Perhaps there was fire. Perhaps there was not. What Eirioch saw was merely the lands of his beloved home, coated in a fine film of colourless grey. It was not warm. A breeze ruffled Eirioch's white hair. The breeze was cold, like the first breeze of winter. Cold, even.

The Abthane continued to walk, his red-eyes trained on the faces of the Path. There were Southlanders with their hooked noses and strong chins, curls long removed from their skulls. There was Earisseans with their round faces and wide eyes, slab-like features. Amidst the stones on the Path, Eirioch saw no Innisians. There was no Hell for Innisians. There was only the vast and unmeasurable Sidhe - which Eirioch could chart and map more than any other. He stuck to the path. If he diverged from the Path, he was lost. His lips twitched as he moved forward. He was dragging his gallowglaigh behind him, making two long ruts in the road. In his wake, was a trail of flame, stoking the fires of hell itself. But as he brought the flame along with him, his breath came out from inbetween his lips in larger puffs of frost and cold. He was becoming too cold, too soon. He would not have the strength to pass through the Deireadh Áiteanna. He drug himself up the crags of a hill, his blades shooting sparks against the granite stones. As Eirioch crossed the crag, conquering it with his steps, he saw what he had come to see. TheDeireadh Áiteanna.

The place he could not see had taken the appearance of a black and featureless void, roughly rectangular in shape. There was no light within it, no stars. Eirioch's red-eyes focused upon it, trying to See into it. There was a flash of images in his mind, but they were too jumbled to be anything. Many red eyes, all staring back at him across a canvas of perfect darkness. There was a flash of white hair, a sting of a sword pressed against his neck. Blood erupted from a wound, and Eirioch let out a cry. In the waking world, there would be no sound. He would only lay there in his sheets, twitching and convulsing. But in this dream, in the Deireadh Áiteanna, there was pain. He stared straight ahead, red eyes burning, tears erupting from his face. Lutairs did not believe in tears, his father had told him once. But there were tears on his face, hot tears. He could hear screaming, hundreds of screams, and then one, clear image. The image of a blue banner with a silver stag. It was on fire, and there were words, chanted out into the air - they were said with such terrible anger. His head was spinning and his stomach clenching. He was certain he was going to be sick. The words they were chanting, well, only one word. But the word was said with such fury and such anger - and worst of all, Eirioch knew exactly who the word belonged to. "Buidseach!" came the voices. He clutched at his hair, tearing out huge strands of his white hair. Clutching at the strands, Eirioch sank to his knees, sobbing.

And then there was a voice. Not angry, not hatred-filled, but a voice int he darkness that was calm, and clear. It spoke the common tongue, this voice, and was distinctly masculine. Eirioch could pick out the Innisian accent that coloured the words, a thickening in the syllables. "You must not look in the Deireadh Áiteanna, Athair." The voice spoke, and Eirioch turned to see the source. A boy. A bit younger than himself, with a shock of white hair that hung shaggily about his ears. The boy had a rounder face than Eirioch did, but he could see strong, high cheekbones and a sharp nose. Handsome, elegant. A combination of both Brigit's and his own features that had blended into a face that would easily woo maidens, if the boy had chose. But his eyes were wrong. They were the same colour as his own, a bloody, messy red that seemed too sharp and too hard in his face. Eirioch smiled thinly. He was pleased to see him. He was pleased the boy had stopped him from looking too deeply into theDeireadh Áiteanna. It would have driven him mad. But he had to look, every night. He had to try to See what he could See. Because there was a war coming, a war that would hurt his country more than it would help them, and that was a war that Eirioch had to try to prevent -- even if he knew that its coming was inevitable.

His son approached him, and reached out to touch his father's face with one hand, fingers brushing against Eirioch's sallow features. They were cold, frost-tinged hands. Everything was cold here. His son spoke once more -- Eirioch realized that while his words and the way he said them were closer to his own words, his voice was far more akin to his mothers, albeit deeper and less harsh. "I can go to the place you cannot look, Athair. But it will come with cost. You know the cost." The boy pulled his hands away from his father and smoothed them down the grey robes he wore. There was an insignia stitched across his chest, one that Eirioch recognized, but did not understand. A silver deer with a crown of flames around its antlers. The Deireadh Áiteanna's portal throbbed for a minute, the darkness lashing out. The son was gone. The father was left alone, clutching his hair, tears rolling down his cheeks. The tears felt like blood.

Eirioch jolted awake. He was drenched in a cold sweat that chilled him to his very bones. His sores had weeped out pus and blood onto his sheets, congealing into a sticky, bloody pulp upon the golden linens. Eirioch sighed, and pulled himself to a seated position, clutching at his head. His hand came away slick with sweat. He did not bother to glance beside him, knowing that Brigit was already gone. She had left to was herself, and then, had gone to the main-hall, sitting next to Aine and watching the two morthir with her cautious and steady blue-gaze. He knew the look that she would be giving them. The same look that she had given him, when he had first returned from the mainland. He rubbed his eyes, chunks of sleep falling out from in-between his white lashes. They incinerated quickly as small flames leapt around his fingertips, only making him feel colder. He drew his kneed up to his chin, huddling alone for a moment, in his nakedness, thinking about what his dream had told him, about what his son had said. His son. What a thought - what a premonition.

The Abthane slipped out of bed, his feet shaking and twitching beneath him as his bare toes hit the hardwood floor. He made the bed quickly and efficiently, smoothing out the coverlet with a wave of one of his white hands. The blood beneath the sheets would fester and rot away at the linens, until one of the Hunter girls washed them out for the two liaisons. He knew it would happen, but that the stain would never totally wash away. He sighed long and deeply, and rubbed at his face again. There was pain in his stomach, hunger. He hadn't eaten any of the mainland food last night, only drunk their damned sour wine. He had picked at a bird and reconstructed its skeleton, rather than consumed it. Too much had been on his mind to eat, and now he needed to eat once again. It was a good thing, the hunger. It reminded him that he was still human, and the last bits of his humanity was something that he craved and treasured. That was, if Innisians - white witches from the North - were actually human at all. Eirioch was uncertain of whether or not they really could be considered such. He fluffed the pillows and propped them along the side of the bed-board. He could smell his wife in the room, and the herbs of her bath. Eirioch's nose twitched for a moment, and he glanced down at his discarded clothes, set neatly on the top of the chest that marked the end of the bed. Armor for today, armor for the mission.

He slipped into small clothes first, and then, breeches and shirt. Eirioch knelt infront of the chest at the base of the bed, unloading armor first. He tightened straps about his legs and chest, making sure the leaf-like leather greaves were fastened correctly. The Abthane then looked towards the sword belt, set atopt the discarded clothes-pile, which held his twin gallowglaighs. Eirioch picked it up with one hand - or tried to. it only resulted in his dropping it. With both hands he was able to lift it, slipping it around his mid-section. The blades were heavy today. He would have to bleed soon, if he hoped to continue to lift them. Eirioch knew the price of visions, of clairvoyance, of his thoughts. He had to cut out the heart of a whore for everything that he had been given, and still that was not enough for the raven. He hefted them in each hand, sliding them out of their strangely shaped sheathes for a moment. He stared at the sharp iron edges, imagining all the blood that they would soon spill. So much blood. Shaking his head, Eirioch slid them back into their axe-like sheathes. He had toyed with naming the blades, something all men in his country did for their favoured weapons. The gallowglaighs that had been wielded by the first Lutair had been called Caladbolg, which made a circle like an arc of rainbow when swung, and was said to have the power to slice the tops off hills and slaughter an entire host, and Fragarach, which was said to have the power to compel the truth from any man and could cut through any shield or wall. Eirioch had never named his blades, though. It simply had not ever seemed like the right thing to do. Of course, they would earn names later, far in the future. But to breathe those names out loud, or to think of them in a such a way would be nonsense. The time wasn't right.

Eirioch stepped into his boots and glanced at himself in the silver-polished mirror that had been provided helpfully by some conscientious serving girl. He looked a fright, sallow cheeked, moody expression, red eyes wet with fear. He wiped away at his eyes, sending white eyelashes flying. The dampness had subsided, he knew. He combed his fingers quickly through his long hair, getting it in some semblance of order. Satisfied, he strode out of the room, heading down the stairs to the great hall. He hung back a bit, standing in one of the stairwells, watching the others with his glittering red-eyes for a moment. His companions were already there, eating, while his would-be-wife was content to question them. She would sit across from them, this, he knew. Viper and the asarlaí sat on the other side, each wearing clothing that was a bold declaration of their loyalties and values. The assassin wore full armor, just as the emaciated mage did. An emaciated mage gone thick with armor and illbegotten muscle. Such things were the results of witchery, the Abthane knew. He wore skulls and demon faces upon his plate, as if to prove that he was truly threatening, that he should find him threatening. In all his visions of the band, Eirioch had never found the man terrifying. The fear he felt came from the standpoint that the asarlai reminded him of his son. And his son frightened him, despite everything. Eirioch grimaced, fresh lines appearing on his thin face. Brigit slipped beside Aine with a good deal of purpose and dignity behind the action. She was trying to escape the witches, he noticed. a worthy enough pursuit.

The Abthane slipped up to the table, and took a seat next to Brigit. She would not appreciate the gesture, Eirioch knew, but it was the right thing to do. It kept up appearances. He glanced side-long to Aine, red eyes studying her face for a moment. There was still nothing there to see, but for consequences and events that would come. There was nothing he could use to latch on to, to cement her trust. He could only see what the girl would beget - and what she would beget was both great and terrible. Silently, he glanced across the table, studying Malik for a moment. He knew his name, of course, but there was a pause needed, for the man to answer for himself. Eirioch had no word for his wife that morning. She would only take offense. She was ill and angry, and that was not something he wished to provoke. He reached across the table, sliding a plate of toast towards him, spearing one of the slices with his two-pronged fork. They were liberally doused in honey, pepper, and ground ginger from the Southlands - topped in raisins. An expensive dish, called Tostee in Earisee. He cut his slice of toast evenly into small, sweet, squares. He picked at them with his fork and knife before eventually, biting into them. It had been a long time since he had eaten. It felt like years. But he did not seem to take much pleasure in the food. Eirioch's eyes were on the two mainlanders ahead of him, watching them with caution and care, seeing their lives play out before him. Tostee was far less important.
 
A
ine had finished her meal and had piled her dishes neatly for when she took them to the kitchen. She felt much better after filling her belly, however that tiny bit of pleasure flitted away like a fickle butterfly when Viper and Malik came to the table. Their armor made her left eye twitch and in her mind she was screaming blasphemes at these two for dressing in such a ridiculous manner. Did they not realize that they were going to a village of rural people who were going to be frightened and grieving for lost children? Did they not realize that such statements would only put those parents in a state where they would not trust them because they looked like the enemy? What had she done to anger the spirits so that she was sacked with these fools?
It wasn't long before the Lutair woman had entered the Hall and came to sit at their table. Aine frowned slightly as the woman took her seat beside her but she figured that it was most likely because she did not wish to be seated with the ones she called witches. The lesser of two evils she supposed. She could be alright with this as long as the Northern Woman did not open any unpleasant conversation that could lead to a brawl like last night almost turned into. Breathing a calming breath in, she turned to bid her a polite good morning when she opened her mouth and out spewed a rather unpleasant line of statements and questions toward Malik. Aine groaned and turned back to face the table and put her head in her hands, shaking her head from side to side slowly in disappointment of a day ruined in less than a minute. She hoped that she had jumped to conclusions and that this wouldn't turn into a bitching-match between the two but seeing only to so little of the two's personalities, she highly doubted it.
Feeling the other Lutair walk past behind her, she spoke as politely as she could muster. "Good Morning Lutairs."
To the left of her, one of the younger hunters who had been accepted a month before had came up to her and proceeded to whisper a message from Palomina. Seeing this as a welcome reprieve from the Nut Gallery, she stood up and retrieved dishes to return to the kitchen, running off at full kilter toward her room. Once she had reached, she grabbed her gear and beckoned Gae Bolg to follow. Normally, her Cara Cu wasn't allowed in the Mess Hall but there wasn't many inside that would get in his hunking way. Taking two steps at a time as she pulled her sensible leather armor on, she ran past Amudar with her instructions trailing back to him. His expression was full confusion at the sight of her donning armor at the same time as running with a Cara Cu in mad pursuit. "Palomina has a message for us! She wants to meet in the courtyard."
The people gasped as she lead the horse-size Wolf-hound into the Mess Hall, throwing themselves against the walls to get out of the way. Stopping at the Mess Hall entrance she cupped her hands over her mouth and yelled out an order before ducking out and headed to the courtyard outside. "Finish your meals and meet at the courtyard. Hup to it!"
 
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Malik glanced in Brigit's direction as he answered her questions. "My name is Malik, after my grandfather. And the armour, is something of a cultural symbol," he proceeded to explain. "My people used scare tactics in theirwarfare, one of which was wearing the severed heads of their enemies, twisted into grotesque form, like fine jewelry as they marched into battle," he grimaced at his own statement. "Personally, I found the practice barbaric in its original form, so I modified it to suit my ends. I'm feared either way, but this scares even the dead."

He looked to his serpent, which had risen to strike at Brigit, and quickly grabbed it by the head, turned it to face him, and spoke sternly in its tongue that it would suffer should it even think about it.

"My apologies. She feels threatened by other females," he explained as the cobra slithered into his hood and wrapped loosely around his neck.

At Aine's words, Malik quickly rose to his feet, put his fist over his heart, and gave a stiff bow before heading out to the courtyard.
 
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Viper kept his eyes on his plate up until that uppity necromancer came in, he was covered in all back just like himself but the only difference was the creature that curled itself around his arm. She stared at Viper like a predator wanting to snatch at prey, he was the mouse and the snake was the hunter…unfortunately things were not that easy even for the snake. His eyes raised from the plate to meet that of the snake seeming for the both of them to have a staring contest, a contest that neither would lose. That was up until the snake turned its gaze upon a new foe in which case the necromancer himself had to end the creatures gazing and striking. His gaze simply returned to his plate on that note as the rest piled in, his fingers grazing along the silverware lifting the rest of what was left on his plate into his mouth just as their senior member stood and told them all to meet in the courtyard before she herself disappeared from view followed by the necromancer so that left him. He sighed lightly and rose from the table setting his plates down upon the window that led to the kitchen and slowly made his way outside.

He made his way through the other members that now would be making their way into the mess hall, dodging and ducking inbetween new guildies trying to find the best seats in the hall. He sighed lightly as he pushed open the doors that led to the courtyard, the sun beamed down upon him seeming to cast its yellow gaze on him reminding him that he was still as much human as the rest of these people that surrounded him. He stepped to one of the trees and rested his back against it, he folded his arms over his chest and merely allowed his eyes to shift shut. He would wait for the other members as he wrapped the facemask around his nose and mouth. One mission and they would be stuck into something he knew it even without telling the future…..something smells really fishy here and he would find out what. Finally after so long his lips parted and he spoke into the magic 'speaker' that rested as part of the device his voice carrying to the group.

"By the way Aine…I have no intention of being seen by the people that sent for us….so do not mind my attire to much protocol for myself mainly."

His voice ceased at that moment allowing the last of his words to dance over the crowd before falling silent awaiting for the word of them to move out. For them to begin moving towards this mission of theirs.
 
"I saw the Abthane once, aye. He came for a fortune telling- I have a bit of the dream-seers in me, despite what people say. He sat down, right where you're sitting, and his eyes were all wrong. I told him the usual sorts of things; he'd marry a high lady, bed her, have a dozen children, live happily ever after. He smiled at me, I'll never forget that smile- cold as winter- , and said politely; ' I must disagree, Mother. ' Then, he was gone."
-- Mother Gwengyfidd, "Eirioch the Man" by Cailan Lutair

Eirioch studied the toast in-front of him for a moment, and listened to the other's for only a brief time. There was nothing for him to say, no conversation, no effort to get to know one another. There was a snake, and that disturbed him. There were no snakes in Innis Buidhe. They had been driven out of his homeland by the First Lutair. He had trampled them beneath his mighty stag Urra's feet. But the snake was more interested in understanding its new compatriots than the living, breathing people. Perhaps they had enough of that last night - or perhaps they knew that the effort of such interactions was already pointless, as he had known of their motivations, names, and heritages from the moment that he had meant them, the exact moment that his red-eyes had studied their faces. He knew the truth behind all of their masks and pretenses. His eyes flickered over to his wife. He Knew, but she didn't. There was no surprises for Eirioch, and the dream seemed to indicate what he had already suspected. He stared at his wife for a moment. She was a beautiful woman, and strong and fierce. She would fight through the worst of what was to come, and would continue to fight afterwards, long after the gallowglaigh was pushed against Eiroch's neck. But that was not the dream he had that night. Eirioch had dreamt of their son, their son who almost looked exactly like them. The son that was coming. Mae'r Lutair, Cyntaf Eto ; the First Lutair, Come Again. He could only imagine what nightmares would haunt him soon. The thought of it caused his hand to clench around his silverware with the crunch of leather. His fork clattered out of his hand. How did that happen? His hand was shaking, a partially opened fist from where his fork had once been inserted into his hand.

Eirioch watched the others move out of the room with his unsettling red eyes, but he wasn't really watching them. He was staring across a flat grey-green plane of grass as storm-clouds rolled up in the sky above him, stalks of grass waving to him in the breeze. Brigit rode on the back of a tall silver hart that he had helped her tame, when he was making an effort to love her, an effort that would ultimately lose out to the realization that it was inevitable that they would never actually love each other. You couldn't change your fate, you could only live with the consequences of it. The place seemed empty; but he knew it was not. The fields were dotted with small white flowers with six-points of petals and a golden-white center. They were called Rac'adal in the tongue of the Innisians, but in the common tongue they would have been called "King's Desire." And beneath those flowers were all the dead thanes and abthanes, lords and ladies that had once lived and ruled within Innis Buidhe. Their barrow-wights would stay in their shallow graves, for the time being. As long as those flowers grew on the cliff and hill lines. But the hills were burning up. A great fire was consuming all of it. Eirioch screwed his face up, closing his eyes tightly, shaking his head from side to side, his ribbons of white hair flicking around his narrow face. Briefly, the image of the flag of his family - the silver stag - flashed through his mind. And it was on fire.


In the waking world, Eirioch had a screwed up face, as if he had just eaten something very sour, and was shaking his head from side to side. His fork had escaped his hand and had landed on the stone-floor with a great clatter. He muttered a phrase, a phrase in the language of his country. It slipped out from his lips, half-muttered, half-mentioned. Gwna dda dros ddrwg, uffern ni'th ddwg. Do good over evil, Sidhé shall not claim thee. There was no hell in the Innisian culture, but Eirioch had seen the faces in torment. He had walked across them. And he knew that one day, he would be there too, in the Earrisean inferno that the mainlanders so claimed to. But after a moment of head-shaking, he opened his eyes, red eyes clear and dark in his eye-sockets. He cleared his throat and glanced around the table. The necromancer was gone. The girl he could not See was gone. Eirioch tilted his head towards Brigit. He needed her, to a degree. To keep him grounded in reality. She was his only tie to the outside world, to the things that he could not See. A thin dribble of syrup came out the side of his mouth. Awkwardly, he wiped that away with one of his leather gauntlets, leaving behind a film on the edge of his gauntlet. He reached into one of the small pouches of his sword-belt and withdrew a piece of thin black cloth - a scrap from an old shirt - and quickly tied his hair back. It was inefficient to have long hair, especially in combat. It was another thing for your enemy to grab onto. But he couldn't bear to cut his hair when he first arrived in the mainland, years ago. They would have cut his hair in the Earrisean fashion, and then he really would have been a morthir. His father's words rang in his ears. White hair and blue eyes, that's what makes a Lutair.

Eirioch rose to his feet, setting down the knife that was still clutched in his right hand. He set it down gently, letting it clank against the table with a dull sound. Then, he bent down to pick his other utensil from the floor, setting it gently next to his plate. There was still heapings of toast on the plate. He had not finished eating. It seemed likely that there would be a point in his life where he no longer had to eat at all. His son would not. He knew that. There would be a super-human element to his child, his son. He shook his head, white hair shaking. No thoughts. Present-day. Eirioch reached to his gallowglaighs and flicked them out from their sheathes, only an inch. The black-stained steel was sharp and ready, recently taken to the whetstone. There were small flowers carved along the side of them, visible within the inch that he could see. Eirioch flicked them back into their holsters. There was no need to draw them yet. Instead, he pushed his chair in, and turned to his wife-to-be, Brigit. "You are prepared?" The question was pointless. Brigit was always prepared. She was a tactician, the most brilliant that their little island had to offer. But she could not compare to a prophet, and he knew that was what had made her heart cold, Brigit, who normally was so warm. He waited for her answer for only a moment, with a tilt of his thin face, his red eyes studying her own blue ones. But whether she answered or not, he knew the answer.

The Abthane turned on one of his booted heels, and began to pad in the direction that the assassin, necromancer, and the girl he could not See had gone. There was a grace and assuredness in his motions, a clear sense that he had played through this scene time and time again. He knew it well. His feet made a dull clicking sound against the stones, and his head was held high, but his eyes seemed glassy in his face. He wasn't really there. He was playing through the infinite outcomes that his motions could have, the endless possibilities of his actions. He already knew which one would play out. It was his fate. Just as it was everybody else's to bear him. Eirioch slipped through the open door, a mild Earisean breeze brushing his hair back over his shoulders. The time had come.
 
Á
ine took a deep breath of the mid-summer breeze and went to tuck some stray hairs behind hers but stopped when she viewed her hand. Remembering the strange event from yesterday she saw that the spirit who had enveloped her was still with her. It was like she had a second skin of ethereal essence. She hoped if she had to use a mirror, she didn't have to try and discern her facial features from the spirit hitching a ride on her. 'This was going to become weird,' she thought and quickly dropped her hand to disguise her actions from the others. She kept her secret from others outside her immediate family for twenty-one years, she wasn't going to blab to these guys. Most non-believers of the spirits tend to look at people like her as if they were crazy. She couldn't understand why, you could see spirits while no one has seen the gods except the really unhinged ones. Looking over to Malik when he showed, her felt a wave of wariness pass over her.
Feeling Gae Bólg's mind brush over hers, he felt her unease and leaned against her in an effort to comfort her. She leaned back with her arms crossed over her chest and ankles crossed leisurely as she watched the others file in.
What the others would see was a gigantic wolf hound the size of a horse. It retained a lot of its dire-wolf heritage but its ears were lopped and tail was set in a permeant curl from years of domestication. His coat was mostly gold with his chest, muzzle, tip of tail and eye brows were white. The Cara Cú regarded the other with an uncanny shrewdness, looking for signs that they may pose a threat to him or his mistress.
Once everyone came together she looked over to Palomina and asked when Amudar came to stand beside the wild woman. "Okay, we're here. What did you want to discuss?"
(It may be short but I want to get the ball rolling again.)
 
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"Basic taming. Not everything has to be killed, and if you're looking to hide your tracks, a carcass leaves a Hell of a trail. Not to mention, some of the bigger predators, like bears everywhere, and tigers in the east, as well as a few others in the islands south of my own lands, can easily cripple you. Knowing how to soothe the savage beast could save you time, blood, and hide your trail." Her eyes turned to the noblewoman from the north. "You know the value of the element of surprise, don't you, Ladyboy?" Then she turned her gaze to Malik. "And I'm sure you wouldn't want to hurt a snake, if you appreciate them."

"So, there's three ways to tame each animal, and it's different for each. The quick way is with food. However, with a wolfpack, you'll need a lot of food, so it's not recommended. There's a friendly way, and then there's a hostile way. The friendly way is simply showing the animal that you are not a threat when you are left alone. Allow it to get your scent, with your weapon brandished. That tends to work for any predator, but there's also a few complexities. For now, allow these three beasts here to get your scent. The stag can use yours as a reference to me if it gets lost. The predators use scent to determine your personality. It smells the differences in your impetus to learn how to approach you. Since I won't let them attack you, they may be afraid of you."
 
Malik was altogether curious, leaving his scythe leaning against a tree as he slowly, but surely walked up to a wolf, sword unsheathed, removing his hood and mask to reveal his sunken features, his greased hair falling heavily into a long devillock down his face. He crouched down, his pet laying still enough to seem like a piece of jewelery. He looked into the eyes of the wolf, then turned his head slightly to show he was not issuing a challenge, and steadily held his hand out to the proud beast, letting it sniff for a few moments.

It's reaction was as he expected. It recoiled as if struck and quickly backed away, ears folded back as it gave a sort of half-whine half-growl, clearly intimidated by, and hateful toward this man. Likely unable to tell if he was truly alive or dead.

The dark youth deliberately rose to his full height and moved toward the stag, getting no reaction whatsoever from the flighty creature.

"Not what I expected," was all he muttered as he then approached the bear. This time, Malik was fearful, though he had been told it would not attack, he had faced one of it's kind before. During one of his tests, he'd faced multiple wild predators, and he knew, though 'twas not his fate, that the creature could easily rend him, limb from limb, if it so wished, and he respected that.

After it took in the scent of this meager being before it, the bear grunted in dismissal, sensing no possible threat from the weak human at all, and turned it's attention elsewhere.

Malik slowly backed away from the hulking beast, sliding his sword back in it's scabbard and replacing his mask and hood as he returned to leaning on his scythe.
 
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Á
ine didn't move to the animals because she didn't know how they would react. It wasn't unheard of for Westerners like her to be confused with the Cara Cú they hunted and lived with. The hound's scent was stronger than her own so she wasn't certain it would be wise to go near the critters that Palomina had assembled. The stag would be nervous and the wolf may see her as similar to its other pack members, it was the bear that worried her most. Living in the Deep Forest, one knew that if you came between a wolf and bear it was best to run for your life. The two creatures were born rivals of each other and often competed over territory and food that it was known that they would raid each others dens.
"Not to be uncorropertive but I don't think I have my natural scent anymore. Not since I started living with him." She tilted her head indicating Gae Bólg. The hound perked his ears up and stared at the stag a bit too eagerly. She caught wind of his string of thoughts and growled a warring. "No, he's not dinner. Don't even think about it."
The only good thing with having her scent over-powered by Gae Bólg's was that he didn't smell bad to humans. Most people have said he smelt clean.
 
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Palomina watched as Malik approached the bear. His caution of the ursine was appreciated and intelligent. She gave a smirk, more in approval than mockery. But Aine managed to say something completely illogical. "Your... Natural scent?" She sighed and held her forehead.
"It doesn't matter, Aine. If it can't smell your natural scent, that's not what it'll look for, it'll look for the scent it got off you - not to mention, your time with your dog may have left his scent on you, but it's much more faint to these beasts than you might think. Hell, I make herbal soaps, and I don't always use the same scent, yet they can still pick my scent out in the forest. A beast's nose is sensitive to everything around it. We're actually olfactorily impaired compared to them."
She noticed the Cara Cu eying the stag, and shot it a glare. It could probably defend itself, but it's likely impale the Cara Cu on his antlers, so it'd be preferable Aine have to deal with a hurt pet rather than a dead pet. "The stag is a noble and passive creature. It eats berries, leaves, and grass. However, when threatened by predators or competing for mates, the stag will put its antlers to good use. They will have friendly competitions between each other, and impale attacking predators. You can see, it has a very strong neck. Nothing can face the stag alone, except for man and ape. We can grab the antlers and topple it on its side of we're strong enough, then wrestle it into submission, or slaughter it immediately."
 
Á
ine wasn't well versed in the hunting practices of the Southlands but it sounded rather reckless to wrestle it to death. To each their own, she thought and threw hands up in surrender. She wasn't going to argue and waste their time over differing opinions. She just knew that deer of any kind weren't that passive, the damn things were just as territorial as any other critter and she knew plenty of game hunters in the Deep Forest to vouche for that fact.
She also knew one other fact that came from living in the West that none of the others would probably know. There were two other creatures that could kill a stag alone, the Dire Wolves and their descendants the Cara Cú. Palomina had displayed little knowledge earlier of the hunting hounds of the West and Áine didn't hold it against her. Only the Westerners of the Deep Forest used them and anyone who tried to use one who wasn't deemed worthy did not fate well in trial.
Gulping, she stepped forward toward the wolf to satisfy Palomina. It was a gesture of respect for the woman even though she knew it wasn't wise. She held her hand out to the canine but it reacted just as she had guessed it would. The wolf's tail tucked itself under itself, whining submissively and lowered itself to the ground. It was reacting to Gae Bólg and probably not her. It licked her hand in a gesture that spoke of it placating her. She back away from it and turned to the Stag and already it's tail was bolt upright. She had hunted deer before to know that this it's response to danger. It would raise it's tail to warn the others of upcoming threat and at the moment that threat was her. The stag backed away from her and she decided that this was as far as she was going to go with the critter. Looking over at the bear, she shook her head and called it close enough. Her instincts told her that wild animals cannot be tamed, if it didn't like her it was going to let everyone know...probably violently.
Backing away, she returned to Gae Bólg and waited for the others to introduce themselves to the critters.
 
"When they first came out of the sea - both of them - I swore to myself that I would not ever take the Horned King's name in vain again, for he had sent his worldly form to me; and elk riddled with salt and barnacles, and a man with hair as white as snow and armor black as night. His eyes were red with fury, and I thought for sure -- this was the end. But he asked me the road to Taigh an Broch and pressed a coin to my hand. I still have that coin - here. Let me show you."
-- Cadoc; son of Cathog, a dock-hand, "Eirioch the Man" by Cailan Lutair

Eirioch ignored the others. But he didn't really ignore them, of course, he could see their thoughts their feelings, their lives spinning out ahead of him like yarn on a spinner's wheel. Ignoring was not something that he was capable of. He glanced at the dogs, and at the stag. This stag was not his stag. This was not one of the proud creatures of his homeland that was so beloved, so cherished. The stag had a dun-coloured coat, and dark brown eyes which twitched dumbly in its face. The antlers were small, and dark beige in colour. Eirioch did not approach the stag, or the wolves - that is not to say that he did not move closer. The Abthane did. He took several steps towards the menagerie of creatures, but only to step past them and through them, taking a space behind the deer. Perhaps it should have kicked him. But it would not, Eirioch knew. The hinds of the deer bristled as he approached, and the muscles in its neck spasmed beneath the fur, gestures that would be lost on most humans. They were not afraid of him, as some would have suspected, but instead, these creatures were reaction to the unnatural way that he carried himself, full of sureness, without any trace of fear about his person. Others would be afraid, or at the very least - apprehensive. But Eirioch was neither one. He knew that this was not the moment of his death, this was not where he met his end. This was merely a step along the way, a step that would continue to elude him as to its purpose. He was not expected to take one of these creatures as his own, and they would never trust him. Eirioch was as unnatural as they were.

Much like Aine, he believed that it was folly to have a bear amongst all the other creatures. Nobody had rode stags in hundreds of years - save for himself - and nobody had ever rode bears. Perhaps mad Southlanders like Palomina rode bears, but Eirioch could not imagine the purpose behind mounting up on a bear and charging into the great unknown. There was pain then, in his mind. A flash of vibrant red that seared away at his eyelids, behind his blood coloured eyes. Somebody would be hurt because of this bear. He saw a flash of white-silver hair. Blue eyes, not terrified, but angry and proud. A flash of white snow erupting from slender fingertips and the angered roar of a bear twisted and turned in his mind. The Abthane stared at the bear for a moment, his red eyes tracing the lines of its form and body, evaluating it. It would lash out towards Aine, but it would not connect with her skin. She would roll away. Even if he could not see her, he could see the dust kicked up by her in her wake. But his wife would slide into place and attempt to freeze the bear in place to protect their new morthir allies. She would succeed, in part, but she would be cut down. There would be a long gash across the side of her neck and shoulder that would mar her otherwise perfect Lutair beauty. He had brushed his fingertips against those scars only once, in the far future. But he had practiced the gesture many times. His hands were cold, and soothing to the touch. She ran hot, Brigit. Even with her icy spells, her blood pounded warm and ready in her neck and veins. He had seen it spilled. The bear would spill it. He turned his head slightly over his shoulder to look at the woman for a moment.

Brigit had her arms folded across her chest, cold eyes scanning the creatures for signs of weakness, evaluating them for what they could and could not do. Her lips were twisted in a sneer. She was recalling the other creatures that these mainland ones so tried to mimic - the megafauna that existed throughout Innis Buidhe. The harsh winters had made them all large, large and powerful. Eirioch's eyes did not go towards her face, however, but instead rested on her midsection, boring holes through her belly. He knew of what lurked there. Something dark and cancerous, something bright and hopeful. A little of both. Things were not so clear cut in Innis Buidhe. They had a long history of tradition dictating the moral rights and wrong, but wrongness was the determining factor in whether or not something was good or evil. Eirioch was not certain he put much faith in that theory. He was wrong, by the standards of those he still called kin. Soon, he would no longer call them kin. There would be two factions. There would be Lutairs and Arollutairs, and Eirioch would not live to see the Arollutairs' victory or defeat. He only knew that they would rise and begin to take the island by a storm. Their leader had red-eyes, while their opposite all had blue eyes and white hair - that's what made a Lutair. Eirioch shook his head, banishing such thoughts. His pale hair stirred in a breeze through the courtyard, catching the wan light like silvery ribbons. His wife did not look pleased. She was glaring daggers into his back.

The Abthane whistled loudly and clearly - beginning with a single note that gave way into several more. It was a song, played on the ocarina that was common amongst the bards of Innis Buidhe. But only the first few bars of a traditional song, the song that was played every time there was sage and holly offered up to the Horned King. As he whistled, the bushes and trees shook gently, like a breeze had given them cause to quiver. Soon enough, the origin of the trees trembling was there. A great silver stag, with a crown of white antlers the colour of bleached bone emerged from the greenery. Larger than its mainland cousin by a foot at the shoulder, with clear blue eyes, intelligent blue eyes. Eirioch's friend. His only friend, if the whisperings behind his back were to be believed. He called out to the beast, reaching out a white fingered hand; "Urra." He flicked his fingers. "Come." The stag tilted its head, and snorted out a fog of exhale towards the others in his ground, and slammed its front feet twice against the ground. "They are allies." Eirioch reassured the creature. The elk took a few steps closer, and the Abthane reached up to grab it by the scruff of its neck-fur. He swung up, with some lack of grace, unto the creature's back. The creature, unlike a normal deer, did not buckle beneath his weight. Urra bore him with all of the pride and nobility of the greatest of mainland draft-horses. Eirioch stroked the fur of its neck gently, and murmured to it in the language of his folk; "Maent yn ein ffrindiau." The red-eyed man turned towards his allies and said calmly, in the common tongue; "This is Urra. Treat him the respect that you would offer your kinsmen, if not the respect that you would offer me. Mainland hospitality is vast indeed, but I find that most have more respect for their allies, than distant relations."

At this, Brigit snorted. She was right. Maindlanders and Innisians shared no kinship. Not a drop of blood.
 
As Malik looked at the bear again, he saw it with it's throat torn open, claws covered in the blood of some other creature, and not a day older than it was now. It's wounds however, were black as pitch, signifying they had been inflicted to heal some other creature.

He looked around again, giving Eirioch a quick nod in the process to show he understood, as he tried to find the one who would need his services so soon, and having no success. Either they lived, or were not present at that time.

Then he noticed something on Brigit. Something only he could likely see. Though she was indeed older to him than others saw, she seemed to have a rather large scar on her neck, though with the faint gold hue of necromantic healing.

He walked over to her and spoke,barely above a whisper. "I know what you're thinking," he said. "For the sake of your pride, don't throw yourself in harm's way. That beast may not compare to the ones of your land, but it's still not to be trifled with." With that, he leaned up against a tree, only for it to wither and give way at his weight. Unable to catch himself, he fell to the ground with a thud.
 
This Northerner was a Stagmaster himself - likely, by rite of tradition. The stag was larger than hers - as if it was some sort of measuring contest or something. Either he was trying to compensate for something, or he couldn't find a smaller buck. She counted a bit over 20 points on the antlers. After that, she stopped caring - it truly was an impressive beast. Despite her curmudgeonly thoughts and snide ideas, she really did have respect for this man.
"Very nice buck. Strong legs. Is he swift? Powerful? You look like a wilding knight riding him, a king of druids. You know of druids, I trust? Regardless, you've certainly earned my respect, Snowball." Palomina had dubbed him "Snowball" because of his hair and his manor of dress - and cold attitude. It was her new nickname for him.
"I understand your mistrust of my ursine companion, but I assure you, he won't act up while I'm around, but I do advise you to practice caution if I'm not in sight. You don't yet know exactly how to tame a bear, so you couldn't keep him alive if he turned on you, though I trust you would all be fine - even you, ladyboy."
With that, Palomina did tip her head to the beasts, especially the bear. She knew they were avoiding it, and again, for a good reason, but the bear knew Palomina, and wouldn't dare act out.
 
Á​
ine looked down at Malik and then the tree he somehow destroyed only by leaning against it. She rose an eyebrow and slowly shook her head at him as she trudged over and offered him her hand to help him up. She had an unsettling feeling this was going to be a precursor of things to come for them all, not liking a damn bit of it. However, she resigned herself to not judging them too quickly as she hadn't seen what they were made of yet. But looking at him on the ground like he was, she couldn't help a chuckle and asked jokingly. "You're going to be a walking disaster aren't you?"

"Alright Palomina, I think it's time that we start heading out." Amodar stated and began securing his travel pack.

((Sorry its so short but I'm not into it today.))
 
Malik just laid there, dazed, for a moment, then took the offered hand, careful to use his sleeve to avoid direct physical contact with Palomina, just in case his powers had gone out of whack.

"My thanks," he said as he dusted himself off and removed the blade of his scythe from the ground with a slight struggle, then retrieved the contents of his pouch, which had spilled over the ground, consisting of: healing and energy potions, a small vial of a fine, shimmering dust, several jars of cactus water, and a smooth wooden pipe with a couple bundles of tobacco tied to it.
 
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