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Post by Loegaire mac Niell on May 12, 2016 18:55:00 GMT
Niall stood alone before the Lia Fáil, as the winds swirled around him. The Stone of Destiny had been used for centuries to coronate the High-King. Brought to Hibernia by their mystical ancestors, the Tuatha de Denann, the voices of the otherworld would roar in recognition of the new High-King of the Gaels. Niall often visited the site, contemplating both his power and his responsibility. His thick black beard sheltered his face from the elements. His hand hovered over the stone, he closed his eyes and muttered something incomprehensible under his breath. Pressing his hand against the cold face of the Lia Fáil he waited. He heard nothing. No roar, no voices only the howling wind. No gods appeared before him to offer allegiance, support or advice. In the eyes of the otherworldly Kingdom he was nobody.
'My King?' A distorted voice crept through the gusting winds.
Niall reopened his eyes, stepping away from the stone. 'Brother!' He cried, greeting Fíachrae. Niall's half-brother was taller than he, more handsome and bearing a fairer complexion. 'You have returned from the East, I see. What news?'
'All in good time. The druid has asked that we assemble in the roundhouse, I will explain all there.'
The warmth of the fire in the centre of the room welcomed Niall and Fíachrae as they entered the roundhouse at Tara. Tending to the hearth was Malgarb, a druid from the house of knowledge who was always a welcome source of information. Joining them was Aillil, a short and stocky man with little in the way of talent. Though he was a King in his own right, and his tribe, the Airgialla, were one of the first to be subjected by Niall.
'Right,' Fíachrae began after clearing his throat, 'as is custom, the High-King at Tara is due an annual tribute from the Laighin. Having visited with the noble King Ennae, he has indeed confirmed he has no intention of paying, as is also their custom.'
'It would only be right to meet them with strength of arms.' Aillil ventured. 'They cannot hope to overcome us should we call in the levies.'
'Every King must dance this merry dance, your father did, and his father before him. All the way back to Conn of the Hundred Battles.' Malgarb added.
Niall offered a slight nod, hinting agreement, though he was only half listening. He of course had anticipated that Ennae would refuse to pay his tribute, his chiefs would exile him if he had not. Still, his mind was not present in the roundhouse, it stood firmly by the Lia Fáil. Surely there is more to the High-Kingship than replaying the same scene century after century, perhaps this is why the Tuatha de Denann refuse to sound the Stone of Destiny anymore.
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Post by Admin on May 13, 2016 13:22:23 GMT
A dazed and filthy beggar emerges from a wood. His hands and knees are covered in mud, and his nails are so worn that died blood encrusted his fingers. He carries a bundle in his arms, wrapped in a cloak. A doughty woman tries to sweep him back with her broom, screeching all the while. A group of men, clearly of great status, happen upon the scene and recognise the beggar. One checked on the druid while two others reproached the woman.
"Back, woman! Don't you see this man speaks with a tribe well above your station?"
"I've seen dogs of better breeding than this hedge-dweller!" scoffed the woman, sweating from her exertion.
"His name is Malgarb. You have heard of this man?" asked the tallest of the men. The woman liked his moustache, it was far better kempt than her husbands, and grew mightier and more even.
"Oh, good lord, I didn't know," she pleaded, before being unable to make another dig at the man from the woods. "Sometimes it is hard for an old widow to tell the different between a man who speaks with gods and a blind drunk beggar."
The three men looked at each other with impatient looks before walking off with the druid, parting with only, "Perhaps your eyes are failing."
The druid had been gone for three days, and the men had struggled to find him. They were unsure whether his mind had finally broken, or weather he was working with powerful magic.
Brought before the king, the druid speaks of his visions, and a journey taken beyond his own physical comprehension. The omens were bad. Lugh marched with the enemy. Though their army was somewhat smaller, with a similar number of levies but a smaller host due to the lower rank of their king, Malgarb pointed out that Ennae would know he was coming, and had some wickedness planned. Malgarb said,
"I have seen a vision of a High King struck by a spear, thrown by a long arm. Lugh marches with their army, the Tuatha De Danann are not appeased." He waited for a tense silence to envelop the meeting, knowing that the High King could not be pleased, before adding, "But another vision have I seen, of a king riding a chariot across the seas and granting a sword wrought by the gods themselves. The vision led me to a mound, now forgotten and thick with brush and woodland; there I dug, there I moved stone and soil, until I found the ancient sword."
The druid turned to the man with the moustache that makes old widows swoon, and he stepped forward with the bundle. The druid unrolled his cloak and revealed an old blade. To civilised eyes it would appear as a fine example of a Spatha, a longer broader blade than the Gladius. It certainly looked dirty, but a lack of rust would make a cynical man believe it to be far younger than the druid suggested. But then, cynical men have no comprehension of magic, and a sword crafted by gods could never rust.
"It's name is Fragarach - granted by Manann, god of the waves, to Lugh of the Long Arm, and your ancestor Conn Cétchathach. With this sword at his neck, no man may lie; with this sword in his hand, the wind itself becomes his servant; a cut from Fragarach never heals. It is a weapon worthy of a High King of legendary stature. I offer it to you."
With that the druid handed the blade to his king. The druid looked tired and was still filthy from his expedition, he looked expectantly up at his lord.
Carrying the sword 'Fragarach' into battle will improve your armies morale and make them accomplish greater feats of valour, increasing your fame further in victory. The reputation of the sword will suffer with defeat, however, as people will begin to doubt its potency. Without Fragarach, any attack on Laighin will make your men uneasy and lower their morale, due to ill omens.
The army of Laighin is equivalent to the army of Ulaid, but their retinues are much smaller - numbering around a thousand men.
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Post by Loegaire mac Niell on May 13, 2016 14:27:00 GMT
Niall furrowed his brow as he examined the weapon. Cautiously he grasped Fragarach's hilt, upon which instance the winds that had plagued Tara for many days began to subside. The blade indeed looked new, forged from the finest iron that Niall had ever seen. The grip and pommel were bronze, inlaid with gold, sporting patterns Niall recognised as those preferred by 'the ones which came before.'
'A King should not cower from battle.' Niall announced after a prolonged silence. 'Fíachrae send out the word, I call all tuathe to the cause. Should they answer, they will be rewarded greatly.'
'If what the Druid says is true,' Fíachrae leaned in closely to Niall so his words could not be overheard, 'we will lose thousands of men, we would not recover for many generations.'
'They may not have to fight. Ennae would be a fool to refuse me the right of individual combat.'
'What if you should lose?'
'The duel is only to first blood. If I win, well, no man struck by Fragarach should ever heal. If I lose, there is nothing to prevent a battle afterwards' Niall glanced at Malgarb, 'druid, come speak with me in private. I wish to learn more about this blade.'
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Post by Loegaire mac Niell on May 18, 2016 16:26:29 GMT
Enter Loegaire
Once again, Niall pressed his hands against the Lia Fáil, still the Tuatha de Denann refused to roar in adoration of their mortal King. He turned away, dismayed. A small band of men arrived at the gates. The man at the fore lowered his hood, and Niall's heavy heart lifted. His son, Loegaire, had arrived. Loegaire looked much like his father, his hair jet black and his eyes blue tinged with grey. He had changed since his father had last seen him. His beard was fuller, proving he was now truly a man, and a grim scar lined the left side of his face. Niall steadily made his way over, his wounds still not fully healed.
'Father.' The young man said, betraying little sign of emotion. Yet he still embraced his father, and spoke briefly of his great respect for his valour in the Battle of the Boyne. 'I have a gift for you,' Loegaire continued, gesturing to a member of his consort. A young woman approached, accompanied by a young child. 'I present to you, your first granddaughter, Fedelm. See her hair? Fiery red. The gods have truly blessed her.'
Niall greeted his son's wife, and kissed Fedelm on the forehead, wincing as he kneeled. As he rose he placed his hand upon Loegaire's shoulder. 'They shall always have a home at Tara.' Niall said. 'Come now, son. We must plan our next venture.
Inside the fort, Niall laid out his plan.
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Post by Loegaire mac Niell on Jun 22, 2016 19:59:09 GMT
Loegaire stood by the Lia Fáil, whilst Malgarb uttered some words. There was no roar, but that was fine. The Lia Fáil did not roar for Niall either, in fact it had never roared since Cu Chulainn split it with his sword, other than for Conn Cetchathach. Even so, tradition was paramount. Eire was under threat from forces beyond its own comprehension, and Loegaire vowed to prevent this.
Following the ceremony, Loegaire laid his father to rest in the newly built 'Mound of the Hostages' which housed many of Niall's deceased Lieutenants.
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