Post by phrostphyre on May 29, 2010 10:33:00 GMT -5
He had been lonely ever since arriving on this damned land. His men, the fat Wally, the sly John, all of them merely serving to dull the loneliness that had nearly killed him at night, whether it be by the campfire with a herd of stolen cattle nearby, or in an inn in a city. He had missed his family at first, but his mother and father faded to the background to be replaced slowly by the hurt of missing showing his sister stuff about the small forest in which his father had held a hunt, every twenty years. The last one had been the year of Convel's birth, seventeen years ago. His men weren't actually his men. He was just the man that paid them, he wasn't their laird. The egg chamber loomed in front him. He had made his way to Aberon with a load of stolen whiskey from the stores of the Governor of Dras-Leona. The guards after him had been angry. Dispersing his men, he had told them he needed a month to himself, and they were to meet him at the Blue Boar, in Aberon after the month was up.
"Oi! Where do you think you're going? You have ta leave your blades outside and swear an oath to the Varden, mate." The guard's voice broke Convel from his reverie. The son of a pig was asking him to leave his blades in the company of strangers?
"Och, nae. I'll nae swear an oath to any but my liege lord, the High King of Alba, or my father, the current Earl of Eilean Donan. If a wee dragon does hatch for me, I'll nae be bound and fettered by an oath taken to none by family or rightful king. As for my blades, ye can try and take them from me, or let me pass." The two men turned to look at each other. This man was wearing a skirt? With two blades visible? And he sounded like something from a comedy, with his "ye"s and his "nae"s. The two turned and whispered with each other, leaving the tall, red haired Alban warrior scowling in his beard.
"Alright mate, here's what we'll do. If a dragon does hatch for you, we'll go from there. You can take one weapon into the Egg Chamber, but leave the rest with us." That was a fair trade. He'd take his sword, as the idiots didn't tell which blade he had to take. Still scowling, he reached down, and in one fluid motion had his Sgian dubh out, and held it handle first, offering it to the bearded guard. He took the tiny sock knife, looking confused, then flinched when Convel held out the dirk, handle first also.
He stepped into the egg chamber, confused as to what to do, when a voice destroyed the mighty strength of the fortress of his mental barriers, leaving him a naked thing, trying to cower beneath a bit of stick or a scrap of cloth. Do not be afraid, red-furred-wolf-man. I will not hurt you. Why do you come into this room armed? Though the voice told him not to be afraid, Convel was near to pissing himself. It held the weight of centuries in it's voice. Mustering the strength that had been Alban forever, the strength and courage to overthrow the rule of a king from another island, that had brought his fortress crumbling to the ground, Convel MacTire, future Earl of Eilean Donan told the voice exactly why he was armed. I've been a warrior since I killed the man attempting to rape my mother when I was ten. I am not intending to harm anyone in this room, unless they do me harm first. I am a man, an Alban, but before all and after all, I am a MacTire! I will not bow before any king but the High King of Alba! I will not swear an oath to any man but the High King or my father, but I will swear to you, mighty one, that I have lived under the oppresion of an empire, I have fought and killed for the High King of Alba, but I will not fight and kill for anyone in this land but my friends. Are you my friend? Convel hadn't been expecting to say that, but he went with it, hoping the voice would not leave him a shattered, mindless piece of flesh.
My, you are a bold one, aren't you? Touch each egg. It withdrew from Convel's head with a chuckle, leaving him shaking in his boots. He stood there, thinking of what he had said. It didn't make sense. What could have possessed him to say that? He didn't know, and didn't like it. His shoulders tensed, and but he relaxed them, and stepped forward. He ran his fingers along the smooth eggs, whispering small Gaelic endearments to them, as one would a baby.
"Are ye nae a wee monster, terrifying, yet beautiful?" He slowly sat down, and cried. He shed tears for his parents and his sister, no doubt thinking him dead. He fell asleep, crying for the mist-shrouded mountains of his Alban Highland home.
~*~
He woke with something playing with the extra red felt material that hung from the pommel of his sword. Something was nosing at it and snipping at it with small, cat like jerks. The eyes turned to look at Convel, with something akin to affection. Convel was delighted at once and began whispering a hunter's song, as he couldn't sing.
"Beidh mé a thabhairt duit céad seithí dobharchú, agus céad breac. Beidh mé a thabhairt duit seithí céad béar, go te tú ag oíche, beidh mé ag a thabhairt duit míle béilí. Beidh mé tú le mo chorp a chosaint, más gá dom. Beidh mé grá duit go deo, agus Dar liom riamh tamaill eile grá grá agam ort."
"Oi! Where do you think you're going? You have ta leave your blades outside and swear an oath to the Varden, mate." The guard's voice broke Convel from his reverie. The son of a pig was asking him to leave his blades in the company of strangers?
"Och, nae. I'll nae swear an oath to any but my liege lord, the High King of Alba, or my father, the current Earl of Eilean Donan. If a wee dragon does hatch for me, I'll nae be bound and fettered by an oath taken to none by family or rightful king. As for my blades, ye can try and take them from me, or let me pass." The two men turned to look at each other. This man was wearing a skirt? With two blades visible? And he sounded like something from a comedy, with his "ye"s and his "nae"s. The two turned and whispered with each other, leaving the tall, red haired Alban warrior scowling in his beard.
"Alright mate, here's what we'll do. If a dragon does hatch for you, we'll go from there. You can take one weapon into the Egg Chamber, but leave the rest with us." That was a fair trade. He'd take his sword, as the idiots didn't tell which blade he had to take. Still scowling, he reached down, and in one fluid motion had his Sgian dubh out, and held it handle first, offering it to the bearded guard. He took the tiny sock knife, looking confused, then flinched when Convel held out the dirk, handle first also.
He stepped into the egg chamber, confused as to what to do, when a voice destroyed the mighty strength of the fortress of his mental barriers, leaving him a naked thing, trying to cower beneath a bit of stick or a scrap of cloth. Do not be afraid, red-furred-wolf-man. I will not hurt you. Why do you come into this room armed? Though the voice told him not to be afraid, Convel was near to pissing himself. It held the weight of centuries in it's voice. Mustering the strength that had been Alban forever, the strength and courage to overthrow the rule of a king from another island, that had brought his fortress crumbling to the ground, Convel MacTire, future Earl of Eilean Donan told the voice exactly why he was armed. I've been a warrior since I killed the man attempting to rape my mother when I was ten. I am not intending to harm anyone in this room, unless they do me harm first. I am a man, an Alban, but before all and after all, I am a MacTire! I will not bow before any king but the High King of Alba! I will not swear an oath to any man but the High King or my father, but I will swear to you, mighty one, that I have lived under the oppresion of an empire, I have fought and killed for the High King of Alba, but I will not fight and kill for anyone in this land but my friends. Are you my friend? Convel hadn't been expecting to say that, but he went with it, hoping the voice would not leave him a shattered, mindless piece of flesh.
My, you are a bold one, aren't you? Touch each egg. It withdrew from Convel's head with a chuckle, leaving him shaking in his boots. He stood there, thinking of what he had said. It didn't make sense. What could have possessed him to say that? He didn't know, and didn't like it. His shoulders tensed, and but he relaxed them, and stepped forward. He ran his fingers along the smooth eggs, whispering small Gaelic endearments to them, as one would a baby.
"Are ye nae a wee monster, terrifying, yet beautiful?" He slowly sat down, and cried. He shed tears for his parents and his sister, no doubt thinking him dead. He fell asleep, crying for the mist-shrouded mountains of his Alban Highland home.
~*~
He woke with something playing with the extra red felt material that hung from the pommel of his sword. Something was nosing at it and snipping at it with small, cat like jerks. The eyes turned to look at Convel, with something akin to affection. Convel was delighted at once and began whispering a hunter's song, as he couldn't sing.
"Beidh mé a thabhairt duit céad seithí dobharchú, agus céad breac. Beidh mé a thabhairt duit seithí céad béar, go te tú ag oíche, beidh mé ag a thabhairt duit míle béilí. Beidh mé tú le mo chorp a chosaint, más gá dom. Beidh mé grá duit go deo, agus Dar liom riamh tamaill eile grá grá agam ort."
