One Brief Shining Moment

[Calarion Sapherior]

"I salute your bravery, if not your common sense, warrior. Who are you? Why were you attacking us?" This voice was familiar - the massive Eosa himself.

[Etherion Fenix]

Standing as surely and staunchly as he could muster, he raised his head up. "I am Galan, son of Galam and I am stopping you from reaching my kin as best I can."

[Calarion Sapherior]

"You have failed," Eosa said. "The indignity that your people inflicted upon my own a generation back will finally be avenged in blood. And you, I give a choice to. Guide us in the north, and I shall release you once our mission is complete. Refuse, and I shall give you a warrior's death here and now. How say you, Pict?"

ooc: Life is busy! Posts will be very sparse for the foreseeable future.

[Etherion Fenix]

"So the choice lies with helping you destroy my own people and living on as a painful remainder of my own failure, or dying without being able to stop you at all. Yes, such an easy choice," bitter sarcasm dripping from his voice. "So, you would trust me to guide you well?"

[Calarion Sapherior]

"I would never trust anyone who would readily betray their own kin," the Saxon sneered. "Perhaps you will find the choice easier once you've had some time to think it over." A foot flashed out and caught Galan in the jaw, dazing him. Fists began to pummel him from all sides. Days passed, in a haze of hunger, thirst and pain. For all that the Saxons had spoken of respecting him, they were readily torturing him now, attempting to break his spirit so that he would serve their dark purpose. Tied up and stowed in the prow of the ship, moved only to be thrashed regularly. What was going on in the world about him he could not tell - his face had swollen up from the injuries inflicted upon him, and he could barely see as a result. Several teeth had been dislodged, and there was no part of him that did not ache.

One thing had not been damaged. Galan's will remained implacable. Days, weeks, a month - how ever long the torture had been, the Saxons had hurt his body but never his indomitable spirit.

ooc: Life still ridiculously busy! Updates will still be few and far between!

[Etherion Fenix]

Galan stayed resolute, no punishment was enough to turn him from his kin. As time drew on he formulated, when the opportunity provided itself, he would escape, some how, some way. Jumping from the boat into the surf, or once they had camped upon land. The time would come and he would take it with both hands.

[Calarion Sapherior]

From the talk of the Saxons Galan knew that land was near. The men began to speak of their weapons, and to boast of the violence to come. Soon they would ask him for the information that they needed. Could he betray his people to the Saxons, if only to gain their trust for the time? Or would he be unable to speak, and betray himself to them? The clouds overhead were dark, and the glimpse of land off the side of the boat faded behind a thick wall of rain. Seawater battered creaking timbers, and lightning flashed in the sky. Eosa roared at his crew as they fought with the sail, keeping their ship under control. No eyes seemed to be on the Pict now. Far from land and in a storm, but there might never be a better opportunity to escape - assuming that he could survive it.

[Etherion Fenix]

How long had it been, years? The brief sight of land welled memories he did not even know were there.
Seaspray struck his face bringing him back from his thoughts. All seemed to have turned to darkness as waves crashed against them. Noticing the complete lack of attention upon him was all the Pict needed. With all his skill he dived into the waves, making for land. For as long as he could hold his breath, he swam beneath the waves to avoid their sight. Home awaited and they must be warned.

[Calarion Sapherior]

Galan was a mighty swimmer, and knew that even in a storm he could hold his own. But he had not counted on the pain of his wounds. For days, weeks, he had been systematically brutalised by the Saxons, and was weaker than he had been in a long time. The waves battered at him, and he could not make his exhausted arms continue to move, or to make his legs kick. A last frantic effort, but the strength of the ocean was too great. But beneath the churning surface, in the cold water, all sensation drifted away, all pain bled from his numb limbs, and the water seemed calmer. Rest now... relax... so easy, to be at peace... the peaceful of the darkness of the depths...

...

...something was nibbling at his ear. Hard, tearing at it. Where was he? What had happened? The brine-soaked man twitched. Again the pecking sensation, and the feeling of blood. One bleary eye opened, to see a gull, its beak fastened on one ear, attempting to tear it off. The man groaned and moved, feebly, but enough that the startled bird squarked and hopped back a step. Waiting for him to die. He twitched again, and the seagull came closer, its sharp beak now moving for an eye. The man was faster. With a manic burst of energy he shot his head forward, and the startled bird could not react in time. The salty taste of blood was in the man's mouth as his teeth tore out the sea-scavenger's throat. He spat it out, and attempted again to move, but the pain of the effort sent a wave of dizziness through him... sounds, incoherent and far away... again floating, sinking, through the water, the cold and soundless depths of the ocean...

...

...a taste in his mouth. Liquid, luke-warm, in his mouth. He could not breathe! The ocean, closing in about him! Coughing, spluttering, he attempted to spit out the liquid, and it splattered over him. More sensations were beginning to return now. Warmth. He was warm. Softness, around him, and over him coarse but warm. His eyelids fluttered feebly, and a bleary image formed before his eyes, but he could not make sense of it. Sounds, near him - words, they were words, and his tired brain struggled to process them. "Da! Da, he's awake!" The sense of the words seemed to restore new life again, and the eyes opened wider. He was in a crude bed, covered with a blanket, a chair at his side, and the door open as the girl who had been feeding him soup left the room. Where was this place, what was going on? For now the most important thing was simply this:

I am alive.

[Etherion Fenix]

Galan coughed yet again, a trickle of soup running down his chin as he tried to breath. Certainly it seemed the gods had a plan for him yet. Gently he stretched his body, feeling out how it stretched, that it was all there and stillin one piece. Feeling confident he was whole, if a little worse for wear Galan eased himself up.
He prepared himself, there were questions, many questions. How long had he been out? Who were his rescuers? Where was he? How far to send word of the Saxons?

[Calarion Sapherior]

"You're awake!" a man said as he entered the room. By his garb, he appeared poor, but Galan paid more attention to his speech: he spoke the brogue of the northlands. "Stranger, Manannan must favour you. Did your ship founder in the storm?"

[Etherion Fenix]

"I would only be so fortunate," he returned in his own brogue. "I was held captive by the accursed Saxon scum. Word needs to be sent as quickly as possible that they are coming to attack us."

[Calarion Sapherior]

"Stranger, we hear little news in this part of the world. But I would tell you that your news is untimely. For my daughter and I have been tending you for the best part of a month, and you unconscious that whole time. If this thing is to happen, then it has already happened."

[Etherion Fenix]

Mouth agape, Galan sat there frozen, his face stuck between horror and despair. "How... how can that be?" His voice broke on the final word. "I, must go, it may not be to late," his voice rising, questioning, hoping that it could be true.

[Calarion Sapherior]

"Stranger, it may be the death of you to leave now - but I think you know that. I can offer you no horse, but can take you by ox-cart to Dùn Neachdain."

[Etherion Fenix]

With resignation Galan nodded. That he had come so far, endured so much to only fail at the last hurdle was a terrible thing. He may no longer be able to help them in the battle, but he could help clean up the aftermath.

[Calarion Sapherior]

ooc: In a few days I'm going on holiday for a fortnight. This is NOT dead, it WILL continue... just, slowly...

The trip with the fisherman was slow and wearisome, for the ox-cart moved slowly upon the bumpy road. When Galan arrived in Dùn Neachdain a few days later he found it a hive of activity. The small village's clansmen bustled to prepare defenses, and suspicious eyes glared at him at his arrival. "What be your business in the town, churl?" one of a group of warriors said as they challenged the mercenary upon his arrival. A brief conversation revealed much to Galan of what had happened. The Saxons had landed upon the coast and had begun to attack the nearby villages systematically - as if searching for something. The lands of the badger samlaidh were being methodically scoured by the forces of Eosa. Many of the coastal villages had been lost, and others had evacuated before all were put to the sword. Obairbrathock, where Galan had grown up, had been destroyed already, and no word had come of survivors - possibly there were some refugees out there, lost in the wilderness, or perhaps the Saxons had slain them all. Soon, their wrath would come here...

[Etherion Fenix]

Deep regret and sadness filled his heart. To come so far and yet find it for nought, all those petty squables gone. With black heart he volunteered himself to the towns defence. If there was anything he could do to help in its defence, killing some Saxons before he left this world, he would try.

[Calarion Sapherior]

ooc: Those who I've been talking to on MSN might know that I've been sick, then overseas, then busy with work, and in the process of all that lost all the character sheets. Just letting you know that I have found them. I still have a lot of work to do this weekend - but I'll try to wrap this year up ASAP so we can restart the game!

[Calarion Sapherior]

ooc: This post is going to be pretty long - I want to just wrap this year up and be done with it, so we can start fresh with the new year. All Galan's actions will be based on rolls on his personality sheet.

Dùn Neachdain prepared for the onslaught of the Saxons as best it could. Some went out into the wilderness to scout, or to look for survivors from the fallen coastal settlements. Meanwhile, Galan helped to prepare the town's defences. Crude barricades were erected to block the Saxon progress, so that they might only come at the town from a few directions. It would help to in some way count against the advantage of numbers that the Saxons were sure to have. The town's shaman, Ciniod, emerged from the sacred cave on the outskirt of the town where he dwelt, and the shrivelled little man, clad only in bones and trinkets, shuffled around the town, muttering under his breath for the samladh of this town, the salmon, to protect its warriors. As scouts began to return, reporting that the Saxons were near at hand, the menfolk began to strip, so they would fight naked save for the blue tattoos that swirled across their skin. Galan drew forth his mighty sword and went to the place that he had been assigned. His blood burnt within him for the horrors that had been inflicted upon his kindred by the Saxons, and for no good reason. They had destroyed his village! One man had come from Obairbrathock, only one survivor. He had seen the Saxons prepare the corpses in the blóðugr örn, the blood eagle - crushing the ribs and removing the lungs of their victims in a foul and sacrilegious offering to their bloody Wotan.

And now they came for his blade.

The Picts could hear them now, screaming the name of Wotan from the trees that surrounded Dùn Neachdain, hammering axe against shield in a terrifying cacophony. Inside the sod houses of the town, women sobbed and babies began to cry. There were too many refugees in this place for them to be evacuated, they would be slain upon the road. It was here that the Salmon samladh and the last of the Badger samladh would make its final stand against the wolves from the sea. "Fear not! Fear not!" cried out Nechtan, the heavily scarred chieftain of the town. He had but one arm, but it held a sword that most men could not swing in two. "We fought the Saxons in our fathers' time and took many offerings to the sacred cave that day! We scattered them before us in our grandfather's day, when first they came to these islands, and it took all of the strength of the sea-wolves and the Britons to hold us at bay! They shall learn again why even the Romans feared to rule these lands!" The Picts roared themselves in response, and Galan roared with them, but he knew how many wounded were amongst the defenders, how brutal and powerful the Saxon onslaught was.

The Saxons began to emerge from the trees, screaming and howling forward. There were a few of the bear-shirt warriors amongst them, the most deadly of madmen. Arrows flew overhead, fired by both Saxon and Pict. Galan's lips curled back from his teeth, and he flung himself at the first warrior who approached the town. A younger Saxon, with a beard not full-grown: it would never grow now, for Galan's blade split him nearly in two. The bloodlust was upon him, for his murdered family, and in the tight confines of the village street, there was no way for the Saxons to surround him, to bring more than one at a time against him, and any one that he faced, he slew. He did not keep track of how many his blade tore asunder until he found no more foes before him. He was spattered in gore, so that he looked as if he had been tattooed in red rather than blue, and his blade was chipped from where it had cleft armour asunder. About him lay the dismembered bodies of a dozen Saxons, a mighty feat of arms indeed. He was tired, very tired. As the blood-fury left him, he dropped his sword and almost fell himself, as blackness flashed across his vision. Someone shoved a waterskin in his hand. They were talking to him, but he could not make sense of the words. He upended the skin upon himself: it was deliciously cold, and washed rivers through the bloody landscape across his body.

"The Saxons have fallen back!" the man said. This time Galan made sense of his words. He picked up his sword again and staggered forward, while the man at his side told him more. The village had been saved, in large part due to Galan's heroism. The Saxons had been held off for a long time, and while they had broken the line in other places, they had finally fallen back into the forest. There was something about it that was wrong though, and it did not take Galan long to realise what. "No. They were not broken," he said, to himself as much as to the other man. "They withdrew themselves."

In a flash it came together. Nechtan's boast about the Saxon trophies in the sacred cave before the battle, the Saxon withdrawal - they had not come for raiding, but for vengeance, and it was not at Dùn Neachdain itself that the object of their vengeance lay. Forcing himself, Galan shouted for others to follow him, as he broke into a run towards the sacred cave, on the outskirts of the town. It lay past trees and rock and through a gurgling stream, and as Galan reached the gaping maw of the cave, he could see a bloody group of Saxons standing emerging from it. Ciniod's corpse lay outside the front of the cave. He too had had the Blood Eagle performed upon him - his spine and ribs had been mutilated to make the form of the eagle, and his bloody lungs were placed atop them. Such sacrilege against a sacred shaman! Galan felt a pounding rage growing within his head and heart. Amongst the Saxons was Eosa himself, leading several warriors who held an elaborate and ornate golden box, large enough to fit a man in - or his remains...

"Galan?" King Eosa gaped, seeing the tiny, bloody man emerge from the bushes. "Stand back. I have what I came for."

"Ye've committed a grave sacrilege and offended th' gods themselves with yer slaughter!" Galan screamed back at him. "Working yer black arts upon a holy man!"

"As the Saxons in this hell-cave were sacrificed to yours," Eosa retorted.

"Ye killed ma father!" Galan howled, drawing his blade.

"And you Picts killed mine!" Eosa retorted. "Oisc, Hengest-son, who was only defending the people that you Picts were attacking. You didn't kill him - you took him away from the battle, denied him his place in the afterlife as you placed him in this cavern for his remains to rot. All I have done has been to find the resting place of my father and retrieve his remains so he may go to the hall of Wotan at Valhalla at last."

Under different circumstances, Galan might have sympathised with Eosa, agreed with what he was trying to do. But not this day, and not after all he had been through. He merely snarled and pointed his greatsword at the Saxon king. Eosa nodded grimly. "One last offering to help my father join the einherjar, then." He drew forth his elaborate axe, and slung his shield upon his arm. "Just you, and just me. I offer you that much honour, Galan son of Galam. For our fathers' sakes."

Galan howled and hurled himself at Eosa, who roared and charged as well. His sword screamed through the air, seeking the blood of his enemy. Eosa punched out with his shield, and sent the greatsword screaming through the air to the side, deflected. "You are too tired, Galan son of Galam. Go to whatever afterlife awaits you." It was true. The sword felt heavy in his hands, his arms felt weaker than they had before. All he had been through in the last months was catching up with him - the wild chase of the Saxons, wounded in battle, his torture at their hands, almost drowning in the frigid ocean, and the terrible battle for Dùn Neachdain. Were he rested, he might be able to defeat Eosa. But now... time slowed. He could see his sword swinging, and began to slow its descent, to try and bring it high to parry. He could see Eosa raise his own axe for the counter-blow, the axehead descending towards Galan's skull. There was no way he would be able to block in time.

Eosa screamed and fell back suddenly, as an arrow suddenly appeared, embedded in his arm. His axe fell from his hand. Galan's eyes widened. Picts, led by one-armed Nechtan, surged from the trees, assailing the Saxons. Eosa glared at Galan with hatred in his eyes, and then punched him, making the exhausted Pict fall. His head struck a tree-root, and the blackness that had lingered at the edge of his vision finally swept forth, claiming his sight...

Galan awoke some time later, in a crude bed in Dùn Neachdain. The Saxons had driven off the Pictish attackers successfully, and slain Nechtan, but had fallen back to the coast and their ships. With them they had taken their precious cargo, the bones of Oisc. Eosa himself had survived, but many, many Saxons had perished in the campaign. It was now for Galan to decide what to do next - to stay with his people, or to return south to his comrades-in-arms and continue the battle against the accursed Saxons.

Meanwhile, Sir John and his companions returned to London, where they reported their mission to King Uther. The King had no qualms about the quality of the man he was supporting, and dispatched troops immediately to aid the brutal regime. They had succeeded - but when they reached Salisbury, Sir Leo would not talk to Sir Owen any more, he disapproved of the young man's actions so much. Similarly, Earl Roderick had succeeded in placating the heirs of Sir Lycus, whom Sir Owen had slain the previous year. It seemed likely that the blood feud was over - for now.

ooc: Galan rolled a couple of very lucky criticals in the first stage of the final battle there. His luck ran out somewhat when he was fighting Eosa. Everyone report in, and we'll start the next year once we've done our Winter Phases!

[cidracin]

OOC: It feels so nice to be back!! I'm really pumped that this RP is starting back again (as all the emoticons show )
Looking forward to continuing Owen's story,hopefully we can get him a happy ending unlike his unfortunate reatives I knows its been a while since things slowed but I'm really hoping everyone will be returning and we can continue this fantasticaly fun RP as this is by far the best RP I've ever been in and the best group of players I've ever been a part of. See you guys around on MSN!

On a sidenote I think this is my most enthusiastic board post ever Also new avatar

[Prince_Asuryan]

Just a quick heads up to say I'm here. I'll get hold of you when I can for winter phase, Calarion

[Etherion Fenix]

Ah Galan, saved by the gods.
I will look out for you on msn.

[cidracin]

This year’s winter was proving to be the blackest one to ever befall Winterbourne Stokes in it’s history, worse even than the winter where Eldoie, her and Sir Aaron’s unborn child, and Aldrydd’s daughter Lorraine had all past away. Though the blood feud between Owen and Lycus’s sons had died down a host of new problems appeared in the feud’s absence. Kara’s death as well as that of her father Marcus had left a gaping wound in both Owen’s heart and mind, allowing both to be swallowed by obsession. Upon his return to his estate Owen spent all of his waking hours in the estate’s library pouring over books written in Latin, to the exclusion of all else. The young knight was searching the books for stories of Orpheus, the legendary hero who had lost his true love but had refused to let her go. Because Owen had no knowledge of how to read or speak Latin he spent heavy sums on tutors to teach him the language but even with their lessons his search had so far proven fruitless, some books proving too difficult to read while other simpler ones contained nothing on Orpheus.

While Owen spent his nights and days pursuing his obsessive search his estate began to collapse due to its owner’s negligence. The harvest was the poorest in living memory and accordingly the number of peasant deaths was higher than it had ever been. Owens stable was decimated and out of all his horses only one had survived. Despite all of this darkness and death Aldrydd’s son James had so far managed to stay alive despite his prior history of sickness and his relative’s inattention.

[Etherion Fenix]

It was a long hard journey back to Salisbury. With his town, family and friends all slaughtered, nothing was left to keep him in the north. His love for his family grew stronger in their passing, knowing he would never see them again. At least in the south his burning need for veneagnce upon the Saxons could be sated. The whole experience had changed him. He had become more lustful for life, all facets of it though his attempts were rebuffed at all tries. His many tales of woe, sung over many drunken nights filled in the time. Mostly he brooded, recklessly attacking the practice dummies, waiting till he could meet Eosa again.

[Prince_Asuryan]

I'm away for a week I'm afraid gents. James, Feel free to do my winter phase rolls, and pm me the results. I'll respond at some point.

[Calarion Sapherior]

494 AD

Ten years have passed since a group of boys fought under an apple tree. Ten years... easy to say it, but so much harder to live it. Only two of those set the quest of fighting a bear - and how paltry that deeds seems now, compared to the deeds that have been accomplished since - only two survive today, and one of those keeps to his estates, his spirit broken. The others who were knighted after that quest have fallen - in distant France, in defense of Salisbury itself, fighting fae creatures at the behest of Merlin.

The world seems a colder and darker place. As the winter snows recede, word comes from London that King Uther is deathly ill. Once he had borne aloft Excalibur itself, and the hopes and dreams of all Logres, all Britain, for freedom from the Saxon scourge. But ever since he betrayed his honour, abandoned his oaths to a vassal so that he could sate his lust upon the man's wife, Excalibur had vanished. There was no heir to the throne, and every day the Saxons seemed to win more and more, striking from all sides - Aethelswith in the east, Aelle in the south, and Octa and Eosa to the north. Merlin, who had seemed to have the power to be Britain's saviour, had forsaken the islands for his own unknown reasons. Now it seemed as if all the last hopes of the Cymric people were merely a guttering candle's flame, to be snuffed out before the storm and lost forever in the darkness that had engulfed the world ever since Rome fell.

In Salisbury, word arrived from the King for Sir John. Due to the questionable acts that the knight had committed the previous year, he had succeeded in gaining a valuable alliance between Malahaut and Logres against the Saxons, and the Giantslayer's fame increased even more. Now a new missive had arrived from Earl Roderick, relaying the wishes of the Pendragon. "King Uther wishes for you to travel to King Canan in Gales, and there to win the King's promise that he too will aid against the Saxons," said Earl Roderick's herald. "The soothsayers declare omens ever worse and worse. Logres can no longer shoulder this fight alone. All of Britain must unite against the sea-wolves. King Canan is powerful and rules over many of the lesser hill-tribes; his armies would be a mighty ally." Alongside Sir John, Sir Owen was to go as well, to attempt to take his mind off his obsessions, and Sir Perin, newly made a knight, a handsome young man whose silver tongue might help to sway King Canan. Shortly before the three were to depart, the Pictish mercenary Galan returned to Salisbury. Many had thought that he was dead, or would not return, for he had been gone many long months. The mercenary seemed changed, somehow, but as one of the most skilful fighters in the county, was also assigned to the embassy. So it was that the four set off, on the western road towards Gloucester.

[Etherion Fenix]

One of the first things the Pict had set about doing upon returning was having a new Greatsword forged. Should the others ask him of his time away, he would give only short, concise answers, the memories still to fresh to tell the whole tale of woe.
For the beginning of their ride, Galan kept mostly quiet, letting the others speak and hear their stories from his time away.

[Luna Guardian]

Sir Perin rode out of Salisbury full of enthusiasm. He was thrilled to travel with the famed Giantslayer and the young knight was determined not to disappoint the more experienced knights.

"May the fae and the gods watch over us and guide us on our quest" he said to the spirits he was sure had their eyes on the group

[Prince_Asuryan]

Raising an eyebrow at Sir Perins words, Sir John rode along with little optimism for the quest ahead. He had continued to dwell on he actions of the past year, and he was determined to remain true to himself this year. He wondered how long Sir Perin would continue to trust in an absent god.