Many Stories - One Clan Council

As the days grow longer and the Lady's light lingers, it dawns time for another Council of the Clans - the first in recent history to be open to foreign dignitaries: representatives from the Gyphons paid their respects and offered aid, and three from the Lions fought and healed beside our warriors - indeed, if it were not for their presence, many fine clansfolk may not have returned from Loch Doon.

We were entertained by a group of wandering gypsies hired by our host, fire-eaters and performers, fair tellers of fortune and stories. Alas but the entertainments went ary as members of the troupe turned their swords upon our Queens, in a moment of madness that cost three their lives. I discerned that they were acting not of their own free will, and remembered nothing of their deeds, but too late to save them. This was the first tragedy of many to befall these fair gypsies, neglected by some as they were tied to no clan. By the weekend's end, only two of the troupe remained alive - the rest, shunning our protection, caught and slaughtered by our foes. The last 2 now rest in my protection and that of my clan: for we were gypsies once, and hold no such prejudices.

And what of these foes? The gypsies brought tales of strange beasts in the night, a tale of cursed daggers and Fey princelings, of mighty hunters and terrible hounds. Two great hunters stalked the two beasts and slew them, only to be cursed by the hounds' Master to wear their skins in their place. They stalked the night still, attacking any who crossed their path, invulnerable to any but the cursed blade, a blade that drove the wielder mad. And attack us too, that night, they did - fearsome foes, huge and furry, with terrible claws that sliced through any who stood against them and hides that seemed impenetrable.

We soon discovered our true foe: a large band of greenskins had entered the area, orcs and goblins, intent on seizing the land in Fester's foul name. Through a ritual, they had seized control of the two beasts and unleashed them upon the locals - who cowered in fear come the night. As bands of goblins fell upon our position, we performed a ritual to break the goblins' control - as well as that of the hounds' true master - to free the beasts to act as such. The attacks relented, and we held our council, while the greenskins licked their wounds and prepared for their final assault. With the chaos of the day, with magics and healing and our links to the very ancestors failing for a time, it was a relief much needed. [It seems our enemies were equally affected, perhaps why they paused, as - we can only assume - the vagaries of the cataclysm continue.]

Come the morn, goblin scouts were caught laying traps, and soon the war horns and drums could be heard in the deeps of the forest. As we formed a defensive circle in the centre of our camp, formations of goblins, led by incantors who chanted in Fester's name, came charging towards us. These were rapidly followed by hulking orcs with mighty, crushing weapons and lumbering trolls of awesome might. Again and again they crashed upon our lines, tearing and rending and whittling us down - until few were standing. And then, surrounded by his guards, the greenskin's leader joined the attack: a monstrous brute of an orc, their ritualist, Ripe.

By the time I had recovered enough from my wounds to ascertain how the battle had gone, the fight was over. We stood (well, mostly sprawled) triumphant, piles of green bodies around our position, healers desperately binding wounds and staunching the flow of blood. Everyone there gave their all and more - and at times I saw even our mighty Lairds and majestic Queens pulled down by the horde - and Caledonia triumphed. It was truly an honour to stand amidst such heroes. Alas, the few remaining orcs dragged away their leader's body before we could ensure his demise.

All that remains is to pay tribute to the one who will fight no more: Laoch David McSnaga, hero of Caledonia, valiant and selfless to the end. Despite our having no way to repair the damage he sustained, he remained in the thick of the fighting that Saturday eve until he could give no more, his armour and shield torn assunder. Without his sacrifice, intercepting a rampaging beast as it broke through our lines, many others may well have died that night.

David, without you, Hearth and Home would not be. Without you, my time in Caledonia would have been much, much less. You were an honour and an inspiration. Rest well in Cerridwen's Halls, priest of the Cerridwen, former Sori, and friend.

 

All Works are © Original Author

(OC Author - Paul Martin)