We'll tell stories 'round the campfire! [OPEN]

[phrostphyre]

"Tell us a new one, Convel!"

"Och, a new story? Alright laddies. Here's one about the water-horse what lives in Loch Killarney. 'Twas two hundred years ago, ye'll ken. Weel, the water-horse of the Loch was living a cold, wet life beneath his loch. On day two hundred years ago, he decided he wanted himself a lady tae be his wife. So, he goes out ontae the shore and transforms himself intae a beautiful golden horse, with a silver bridle.

"Weel soon enough, a pretty lassie comes along and sees the beautiful horse. She wants a wee ride, so she mounts the capall, and as soon as she's settled, he takes off intae the loch." The blue eyes looking out from under the red hair suddenly turned to Rupert, blinked once, then went back to the story.
A sudden shifting of men to where their weapons were took place, but it was very subtle.

"Well, as lassies dinnae like eating water-weed and cold fish for their supper, she soon grew unhappy." This was accompanied by a wink at the assembled cattle-thieves, and laughs. " The water-horse, being a clever sort, decided tae build her a wee chimney. But, alas, he could nae do that with the fins, so he hied himself tae the shore once more, and again, in tae the horse with the silver bridle. This time, a stonemason is passing by, and hies himself ontae the horse. Weel, down they go, and this time the stonemason is offered a choice. Build a chimney, and be let go...or.... Weel, that's why a wee part of Loch Killarney doesna freeze over. The water-horse's chimney. Now, why do we nae get some sleep, laddies?"

This was accompanied by more laughs. Most of the men were older than Convel. The red haired man stood from his place, and stepped over to where a gray war-horse was nosing at the grass. Muttering small endearments to him in Gaelic, Convel slowly took his bow and arrows from the pile of tack on the ground and set them by his bedroll. The fire was dieing down as Convel stepped out of the camp and onto the grassland, making himself available for whoever had been watching his men.

[Formula]

Whomever or, perhaps in this case, what ever was watching his men.

If the human looked well enough towards the ground he would find the quarry of his hunt, curiously sitting upon the perch of a small and flat rock to gain whatever miniscule vantage across the group of men. Perhaps to the surprise of an unsuspecting human, the result would be nothing less nor more than a small feline, its sleek body bearing a thin and tawny shaded coat with accents in an opalescent mane. Its ears were pricked forward, and its attentions very apparently fixed upon the camp not so far from either of them.

Or at least they had been.

With an inherent speed that simply came with the animal and yet a certain deliberate air that nearly made the movement appear slow, the cat's aurous gaze narrowed upon the human with nothing short of perfect – and eerie – sentience. She did not look entirely surprised to see him, doubtlessly aware of his approach through her heightened bestial senses but not made skittish by such a fact as one might expect of an animal.

Instead she offered a nigh amused purr, and one of her ears flicked simultaneously to her lifting her hind quarters and standing to greet him. If nothing else, she looked a tame and easier trusted creature that, in spite of its odd appearance, may have simply been lost from a nearby farmstead. At the very least, this is what she hoped for, for such fragile and capricious beings as the one that towered over her were unpredictable and varying at best.

[phrostphyre]

"Mhpmmm? A wee kitty, hmm? I think that's not all ye are, lassie." The slanted blue-eyes turned towards where the purr had come from. Sweeping a hand through the loose flaming red hair, he shook his head at where the noise came from and grimaced. Damned magic. We're lucky the Imperial bastards haven't put a bloody magician on our tail, or we'd be deader than a doornail by now.

Shrugging, he turned to walk a circuit of the camp, checking to make sure it was all buttoned up. Pausing for a moment, he stepped back towards the sleeping pile of groaning, farting, and snoring men. Twenty-eight all, including Convel, they were smugglers, cattle-thieves, and general all around nuisances to the Empire's cavalry, which they outsmarted regularly. The kine they had taken were all either asleep, or slowly chewing a bit of cud.

Reaching into his saddlebags, Convel withdrew a bit of venison. He returned to the cat and stepped forward slowly, not wanting to startle her.
"Here ye go, lass. I hope ye enjoy it." He tossed the bite towards the cat, aiming for beside the paws. It was a good throw, and landed right where Convel had aimed. Sitting down, he sat cross-legged and with his palms away from any of his three blades.

[Formula]

Still the cat considered his hulking figure thoroughly, eyeing him with intense scrutiny and bemusement as he moved into his provisions and retrieved his offering. By the very feline expression she held, it might have been thought that Maeve was expecting no less from the man. Still, she did well to lift a paw away from the piece of meat as it made a fleshy sounding contact with her perch, showing – albeit accidentally – that not everything he did was entirely anticipated.

Lowering her paw once more and leaning down to gingerly sniff the piece of meat, her ears both pinned backwards to her skull as she quite quickly made her decision on what to do with it. Greedily, she nibbled and nipped before gnawing up the entire bite, free meals being rare and of fair quality meat even rarer.

When it was finished, she once more allowed herself to look upon him, resting back on her haunches once again as her tail flicked against the stone in what might have been seen as impatience. Her ears were perked forward again, and she seemed expectant for something; another hand out, perhaps, or maybe just for him to say something else now that he had seated himself as if he thought her good company.

Her curiosity furthered.

From the angle at where she sat, her odd mane and the tufts of fur at her paws caught the moonlight like spiderwebs; pale and glowing, and glittering in their golden highlights. Her eyes, too, caught the light further and only more deeply expressed the sentience that lay bare and plainly upon her interested and no less interesting face. If in any moment at all, it would have been this that would have provoked any other person to truly consider their previous thoughts on her being anything more than a simple cat.

To his good fortunes, then, that she'd not been sent by any empire.

---

ooc;;
Half done because I wanted to write instead (I get bored easily?) but for you all the same ;p
Probably wrong to what you imagine for him but you really weren't all too specific in his bio! Plus I totally suckkk at men. :l

[phrostphyre]

The thud of a man falling and muted cursing reached Convel's ears. It was one of his men, stumbling over a saddlebag trying to find the latrines. Ignoring him, Convel turned back to the cat. He leaned forward slightly, reaching out with his hairy hands to try and let the cat sniff him and get used to him. The camp consisted of their wagon filled with their supplies, extra weaponry such as bows and arrows, spears, and whatever shields they needed.

Convel's targe, chain mail shirt, and claymore were in there, three purchases he had made as soon as he had the money he needed for a five foot long sword, a long sleeved shirt of mail that only covered his arms and torso, and a small, round shield with a ten inch spike sticking out of the middle. The wagon was surrounded by at least twelve men, with the rest interspersed with the horses and cattle, and the campfire was in the center. The man with a song to sing, or a tale to tell got to sit nearest the fire.

"I think ye should come warm yourself by the fire. Do ye wish it?" He spoke in a low whisper, as the cat his mother had kept didn't like loud noises or sudden movements. He scooted forward slowly and slightly, so he didn't have to lean to let the cat sniff his bruised knuckles. Punching someone in the face might have advantages, but it also had drawbacks. Such as broken or bruised knuckles.

[Formula]

Her tail flicked in one direction, almost irritated by the question. There was something to be said of the human for his speaking to her directly and offering her things based upon her whims and wishes, yet Maeve found herself ultimately displeased by his assumption that she would go anywhere with him for the low price of a piece of venison! She was not so capricious nor easily won, and though she sniffed gingerly at his knuckles with slight interest, he was hardly anything extraordinarily fascinating.

Haughtily, she lifted her head as a noble woman to peasants, in spite of her comparably tiny stature, and walked in front and before him towards the fire. There was a deeper ingrained point, of course; the decision to go had been hers all along, and his wishes on the matter meant nothing to her.

Her abrupt pause, however, had nothing to do with choice, but of instinct, and the inherent response to the snarling growls of monsters lurking beneath the veil of tall grass.

Perhaps it was safe to decide they had been being watched by more than cats.

[Wild Dog]

Araris walked slowly through the woods. Just the day before he had a job. Now, he blew it. It had nothing to do with his talents or work attitude, but because he was blacksmith at heart. Working in a pottery shop just didn't appeal to him. After breaking many goods, he was run out of the town. He was not meant for such work. He needed to fight, have an adventure, or he might as well go crazy. Leaning heavily on his spear, Araris surveyed his surroundings. To his left lay a plot of trees, all waving in the wind. Bits of rocks jutted out off the ground and small bushes dotted the landscape. To his right a small creek flowed down. The nighttime air smelled of grass and trees.

And people

Ducking low, Araris crept forward. He had no intention of meeting these people, but wanted to find out who they were. Glancing around, he found many hoof-prints in the earth. After following them for a while, he stopped. Their must have been dozens of these people. However, something else caught his attention. one pair of foot prints were much smaller then the others. Oddly enough, they were shaped as cat prints. While searching for an answer, movements caught is eye. Packs of what seemed to be some type of animal danced across his vision. He was not alone.

Very carefully, he slunk into the shadows under a large tree. there, he paused and waited. After a while, the animals lost interest in them and padded away. After waiting for a couple of minutes, Araris explosively let out his breath. Just then, one thing caught his attention. The beasts were running along with the tracks. Without thinking, Araris chased after them.

What seemed to Araris as hours passed along. evidence of the band of men grew more frequent. All of a sudden, the soft glow of a fire appeared just ahead of them. Sucking in a deep breath, Araris shouted, "Men, danger, wake up and defend yourselves"

[phrostphyre]

"Sgurr Uaran! Rally and defend the horses and kine!" Convel was bellowing the order as he stood, and drew his sword and dirk in one smooth motion. Bounding to where he heard grunts, he struck overhead with his sword and brought the dirk up underhanded, intending to stab whatever was attacking his men. I'll be damned if I let my men, horses, and cattle get eaten, killed, or hurt!

"Willy, ye shite-faced bogle! Get a ring of spears around the bloody wagon! Dinnae let anything cross past ye! When ye can, toss me my claidheamh mòr, and we'll see how these bastards like a taste of steel!" Though his left hand was protected by the basket hilt of his sword, Convel remained afraid to punch out with it, as he didn't want or need to hurt his hand. Though he couldn't see the monsters, per say, he instinctively knew where to slash, stab, and cut, with both dirk and sword. His concentration on the fight was broken when a five foot long sword landed point down in the ground next to him. He sheathed the broadsword and yanked the claymore out of the ground. Though the cross guard was down turned, the blade was still wicked looking. Sheathing the dirk, Convel let out a wicked laugh. Now he had his claymore. Now he could fight properly. Now, some shite-eating monsters were going to feel the rage of a berserker in the heat of battle. Convel got a two handed grip on the claymore, and let loose with some Gaelic shrieking. His horse, which had been nosing at some grass, looked at him startled, not being used to Gaelic shrieking.

The battle stuffs of Albans have remained the same over several centuries. Disdaining tactics, strategies, and stuff like that, the warriors would line up on the battle field, wearing a long shirt that covered their knees, their kilts, and nothing else. Depending on the warrior, they would be equipped with dirk, small sword, targe, or claymore. Upon see ing the enemy, they would start bellowing everything from love songs, to insults, to marriage proposals. As the enemy most often didn't know what the Albans were saying, the effect was startling. As the Albans charged, yelling the whole time, they would drop their kilt and charge, wearing only a shirt. Some of them painted themselves blue, and fought completely naked. Suffice it to say, the Albans were better at attacking than defending. Tell them to take a hill, and the last man would die before giving up the fight.

Convel, being the inheritor of a proud warrior tradition, and a berserker's rage, was now doing his ancestor spirits proud. He was swinging the claymore in great two-handed arcs, not aiming for anything but death. A monster, trying to take him from behind, had an arm lopped off as Convel brought the blade down, taking it in between the arm and neck. The claymore was meant to crush skulls open, take multiple heads off in one swing, and generally cause massive amounts of damage to the recipient.

ooc;This was done on my father's PC, and as the weekend hits, hopefully he stays in the living room along with my mother, so I can be on in his room.

[Wild Dog]

Seeing that the men had been warned, Araris turned and walked away. After the big red-headed guy yelled, all the men woke up and were fumbling for their weapons. If these men can't handle a few beasts, what more could he do. While walking, sounds of the battlefield drifted over the night air. The clashing of swords and the ever present cursing reminded him of the mercenary band he used to work with. Sadly, they were outsmarted by the empire and routed out. Araris was the sole survivor. Trudging toward Teirm, the dies sounds of a battle faded in the distance. offering a quick prayer to whatever God there was, Araris turned to his goal. There, lying near the rising sun, was his future

[Formula]

It was surely a sight to behold, but whether the display was admirable or amusing to the smaller feline was hard to discern. Perhaps it sufficed to simply decide on 'awe-inspiring' regardless of what emotions prompted her awe or bemusement. Her aureate gaze remained fixed for a moment upon the human, listening to his instantaneously given orders with the eerie sentience she'd possessed through the entirety of their meeting, calculating his movements and his decisions with the intensity of a mentor or – worse – an opponent.

Sloppy, she'd concluded with a finality in the thought that suggested her ideas on more than his battle display.

As the beasts emerged from the shadows and revealed themselves to the dim light of the moon and the fire, Maeve's thoughts were lost from her to the startlement of what came before her eyes. They were no less than giants; massive wolves with presumably larger appetites and comparable teeth. They ranged in their shades and colorations, but the first to lunge into the camp was great and white, malice laden eyes dominant and telling simultaneously of his significance as the alpha of the pack.

It had been some time since the werecat had seen a Shrrg, but a pack of them so far out of the mountains was very peculiar indeed.

The pack as a whole seemed relatively undisturbed by Convel's shrieks, and were happy to try and silence him. Two made for the assumed leader of the humans while the other eight began tearing into horses and tents with reckless abandon and ferocity beyond any hunting behaviors Maeve knew of or could recall. Unsettlingly, it led her to the abrupt belief that they were here with more purpose than simple meals, and that their trek so far from home was with a specified quarry to lead them. She had scented another nearby but could not see his face, and could tell nothing of the men before her that would suggest them worth being hunted by such creatures. Narcissism or wit bid her to believe herself as likely a candidate as anyone else, and it was only emphasized as the eyes of the alpha, the color of green tarnished cast iron, locked into her own with a vicious snarl erupting from his lips. But then, perhaps he simply knew her for more than just a cat.

Finding herself in quite the predicament, her options became quickly limited and limiting, and beyond that, Maeve was in no position to argue against the necessities to survival. Sloppy as she'd deemed Convel, his determination made him as good as anyone to fight beside for her own life, even if she had to pay close attention to just where he was so recklessly tossing his massive blade and weight around.

One might have thought it choreographed previously; the way the glint of metal so carefully caught the light of the moon and cast across her feline eyes, leading her to dart off towards the alpha and leaping for the weapon, discarded from dead hands, while shifting into her human shape simultaneously. It was as elegant as it was natural, feral and beautiful and strikingly potent of magical forces beyond the understanding of most. It had not been her immediate wish to show her true self to the humans she'd been watching, but her life meant more than such a secret.

In a forward tumble, the cat became a woman with white feathers in her hair, dressed in..

.. Well, nothing.

It was a socially awkward way to display her true nature, but thankfully, all attentions were on the opponents of the eve, and it seemed so far that the Shrrg were not of a mind to leave anyone to tell of the nude exploits of red-headed werecats.

The weapon was heavier than what she was used to, but small enough as a short sword to be of some use. Her human form displayed a well muscled agility to rival her other shape, and within that one moment, her newly acquired blade was at the ready as she circled with a very dangerous hunter.

And yet she grinned.

[phrostphyre]

Convel's men had rallied gamely, forming a ring of spears around the horses and cattle, while several of the Shrrg went after the berserk Alban. His claymore kept them at length, while he lifted it in his left hand and drew his broadsword with the right. He couldn't feel a thing, except the fact that he had to kill these wolves, now and if he thought about it, he'd be dead. A large brown male leaped for the back of Convel's neck from behind, meaning to pin him. A rock shifting underneath the foot pad of the wolf alerted Convel, and he turned, bring his claymore down and his broad sword up, catching the wolf in the throat and skull. Gritting his teeth against the feel of pulling metal from brains and shattered bone, Convel was brought to a knee by a quick slashing bite at his calf muscle. Roaring in rage, he dropped both swords and drew his dirk. If he could kill a normal sized wolf with his Sgian dubh, why not triple each?

Convel turned and rushed the wolf that had slashed him, catching an ear with the dirk and punching it in the eye with his left hand. The wolf blinked in surprise, giving Convel the precious second he needed to stab it in the throat and get a hand in the slavering mouth, behind the huge knife-like teeth, keeping the mouth from closing on his hand as he gripped the upper jaw with his free and and pulled, meaning to rip the jaws apart with brute force. A knee to the stomach of the monster, and then they were still wrestling around, but more in Convel's favor. The teeth cut his hand once, twice, the POP! goes the wolf's jaws. Grabbing the dirk from it's throat, Convel turned towards the battle going on around him. The cat had turned into a female clad in skin only, with the alpha male going straight for her.

A quick glance showed his men beating back four of the wolves, and the rest not in sight. Running as fast as he could, Convel was inches away from not making it in front of the alpha's jaws and the cat-girl's sword. Diving, he hit the wolf in the legs, causing them to tumble head over tail.

"Go help my men, lassie!" A quick shout in the direction of the girl was all he had time for, as the breath was driven out of his lungs by the back legs of the wolf. Both sprang back up and circled each other warily, Convel hold his dirk with the blade pointed down, in a classic knife-fighter's stance. The man and wolf were making eye contact, and Convel read it in the wolf's eyes when it decided to make it's move, but the man was there first, slashing, dodging, stabbing, and avoiding, all in one motion. It was a dance of death, and whoever miss stepped first was going to be bleeding out on the ground, as the life went from his eyes forever.

[Formula]

"Ignorant whelp!" she spat in Convel's direction, irritated immensely that the fool of a hulking giant had stepped in her and the alpha wolf's way and ruined their dance completely. Every step she had made had been precise, every breath calculated, and it all could have ended right there if only this madman and towering idiot had avoided being a bloodlusted gloryhound. The wolf, too, looked relatively put out for the boy's transgressions, as there was an art to the hunt that he simply hadn't the years to have grasped yet.

It was here the massive beast showed sentience beyond common knowledge, and as it circled with the deemed pup, it seemed only to be a masquerade of interest in lieu of true malice. Its eyes did not leave the aggressor, but through its peripheral sights it kept a curious note of the werecat's position before moving backwards abruptly. It had bitten first, warding away its masculine attacker to avoid being cut up in the sudden retreat that left the massive wolf covering a wide expanse of ground before any human would be able to catch up.

An attack with purpose, as the werecat had decided so much earlier.

Maeve, in the meantime, had done as was requested – or rather demanded – of her by the armed child, and darted toward the rest of the attacking pack, the men, and the horses. Four horses were lying strewn about the ground, with destroyed tents and campgear all around them, and a few men decorated the intricately bloody mess as well. However, many of the wolves were turning in spite of what may have been a massacre and victory in the long run if only they'd stuck it out, their brute strength, goliath forms and impressive fangs all earning them great favor on the side of their surprise attack.

As a result, the men were beginning to lose some of their composure, and one specifically darted forward as if he would yell and chase the beasts in a final expression of adrenaline. One wolf, too, had stayed behind with lingering thoughts, and targeted the blood drunk creature with a predator's thirst and an immediate and open jawed leap.

It was here Maeve would meet her hastily snatched blade to the warm flesh of another, but there was an immediate sense of dread and guilt for what was to be done in saving these trifling human fools. As she made her running leap, she looked as a cat taking down prey so much larger than itself with ease, the sharp dagger burying itself completely passed the fur and the skin to drink deeply of the blood and warm flesh in the Shrrg's throat. The creature gave a howl and a yelp as it was tackled from the air and its specified quarry, and the man it had been hunting had only time to spin around and see the open jaws be cast to the side by the grace of his impromptu savior; time to see her unsheathe her weapon from the body and stab it more purposefully into the animal's heart once they were on the ground together, her toned legs straddled over the belly of the quickly dispatched creature.

Blood had erupted as a fountain before she had stopped the beating of the canine's heart, and as she whispered few words under her breath that sounded something of elvish, the recovering men tended to their dead and their wounded, or watched the female and her body-draping veil of blood in a sense of fascination and curiosity.

"Auta sii'e seere, toror draug."

[phrostphyre]

"Damnit all to Hell! Shite eating, whey-faced cowards! Come back here and eat some swiving steel!" The berserk warrior, Convel, shook a fist after the wolves and lapsed into Gaelic, cursing poetically and long windily. "Cuireadh do mháithreacha muca, agus do aithreacha bhí géanna! Más rud é Dia stailc tú síos, is féidir leat lobhadh in ifreann do tsíoraíocht, agus d!" The blood-covered Alban glanced around, looking for his swords. The broadsword was lying gleaming in the fire light, covered with blood and gore. The claymore was in worse shape, covered with fur and bits of saliva too. Ignoring his blades, Convel went to the first of the wolves he had killed and flipped it over onto it's back, with the belly facing the sky. Seizing his dirk with both hands, Convel drove it down with ceremony, hitting right below the sternum. He drew it down towards the groin, making a swift, sure cut, while intoning the ancient gralloch, the whole time, butchering the wolf.

"Gods ar fud an domhain, buíochas a ghabháil leat as a thabhairt dom ar an mbronntanas feola. Ní bheidh mé in iúl dó dul le dramhaíl. Beidh mé é a úsáid do bheatha le mo fir, mo theaghlach. Beidh mé ag úsáid chun te mo mhac agus iníonacha, agus buíochas a ghabháil leat, le haghaidh an bronntanas havee tú ar fáil dúinn. Beidh mé ag cuimhin leat agus buíochas a ghabháil leat. Go raibh maith agat, na mbiotáillí agus na déithe an tsaoil seo, le haghaidh a sholáthar dúinn." Convel took the steaming pile of entrails and set them on the ground, before moving on to the second wolf he had slain and repeating the process for it and the last one.

The proper prayers said, Convel turned towards the fire and laid down, wrapping himself in his plaid, to try and keep the nightmares from killing him in his sleep. He slowly relaxed, gazing into the fire. The eyes of the men he had killed over the years stared out from it, letting him know they knew he was still alive and that they'd wind up in some frozen Celtic hell, hands wrapped around each others throats forever. His eyes closed, as the dreams took him to Alba for a moment, before spiriting him away to Hell, where fights and deaths relived themselves before his horror stricken eyes.