babbysama — Roleplayer Guild

Dunlad strode warily into the council hall, heavy thoughts weighing on his mind. There had been many happenings in the tula lately, and above all, tensions between the dark child and the apothecary. And while he bore no love for Eliz—thinking her too hot headed and crude for her own good, though that was the case for most gallocman—he knew that the feuding between Maire and Eliz would only deprive the council of its legitimacy in the eyes of the tula. They were faced with a new home, and enemies on every side; the least they needed was dissension from within. At the very least, the dark child had gone to set right the mess she had wrought. 

And he would never let her forget it, either. A dozen homesteads lost. A dozen families bereft. 

At the very least he had, with the efforts of the kerns and many others, been able to avert disaster and save this year's harvest, a dozen families lay on Eliz's conscience. And on his heart. The dark one, with her cruel face and bitter words, had lambasted Maire's failed expedition, for it had caused the death of two good men. But could she not see what her own actions had wrought? Did she believe a handful skinny mares and some rusting bow (whose discovery, she claimed, was ordained by the Tuan Rithe themselves) was enough to balance the scales? 

Had it been up to him, he would have doled out a harsher sentence. Dunlad was not a violent man, but he thought that perhaps she deserved more castigation than just the wretched scar that mangled her cheeks. He even thought of bringing the matter before the Council, demanding that she pay reparations for her crimes. He’d likely garner no small amount of support in the tula.

Whatever came, he would support Maire. Although he did lament the death of Alban and the others, he did not begrudge her her expedition; he knew that she had gone about her purpose with only the best interests of the clan at heart. Had the dark child done anything without first thinking of herself? 

Dunlad remembered well her wineskin of a father. A fitting heir he thought, bitterly, She need only to take to drink and she'll match his failings. 

Just like youself. He spat into the mud before crossing the threshold. 

Dunlad listened intently to the girl Fiona's tale, preparing his long pipe all the while. He had never heard tell of a kindly orc before; indeed, rather the opposite. The word orc, most often whispered around a Moon Season hearth to weather a snowy eve, conjured images in the Urlandi mind of bloodthirsty hordes of mongrels who stole into their tulas and ate their children in their cots. 

However, cautious man that he was, he could not but be intrigued. But, cautious man that he was, he wished to temper Chief Serheim's suggestions with a kernel of wariness. Knitting his brow, he drew deeply on his pipe, and exhaled a plume of bittersweet smoke.

"I think that we should not be so keen on offering this beast a place in our tula..." he began, pensively, "...at least, until he's proven his mettle. After all, we can't know if he be friend or foe on one seeming act o' kindness. It could be a ruse, for all we know." 

"Mind you, I do doubt it," he continued, "But one can't be too cautious when dealing with orcs."  

"I say, we offer him a reward for having saved little Fiona's head. Whatever orcs like---a cow or two, I know not. If that sits well with him, then maybe there'd be something more in the future for services rendered. But don't let him step one foot beyond this tula's walls, I say. I'd fain lay with a goat than let an orc walk free on Urlandi soil—at least, until we know for certain he means us no ill-will. What if he brings more o' his ilk with him?" 

With the arrival of the news of the Nightfell's imminent raid, Dunlad offers his services to the fortification efforts. "I'm no military man," he says, bluntly, "But I can make use of these hands." He holds them up: thick hands, calloused and knotted by hard labor. 

He also begins to reconsider his stance on the orc issue. Seeing as how the tula was to be more or less encircled by Nightfell's and Greenfeather's strongarms, it wouldn't hurt to have an extra pair themselves. He bore no love for orcs, and he thought that, even un-suspicious as he was, that having one around would bring nothing but more calamity down upon their heads; but, exiles here in Hidden Valley, what could they do but turn to unlikely allies for aid? "This," he said, pausing after every word, "Would certainly show us if we can place our trust in him or no. Mind you, I defer to the Chief's judgement. But I do hope by Urak that it be well-placed." 

The tula was in an uproar. With the Nightfell and Greenfeather raiders nigh upon them, it was bustling with the toils of kerns and gallocmen alike to ensure that the proper preparations were made. They would be heavily outnumbered, and might well suffer great loss of life and hearth. Furthermore, their clan magic was not as strong as they had hoped; and while they would sacrifice to Urak, Cairis, and Dyvella, Dunlad thought that there was little expectation of divine favor gracing their prospects. This would be a crucible forged in steel and fire. 

The sky was dimming to a deep gold, streaked with skirling cloudbanks and hints of the distant stars, when Dunlad brought his mare to a halt under the eaves of his estate. He was weary, his entire body aching from the day’s whirlwind, and what he wanted most of all was a strong ale to settle his bones. He called in a hoarse voice for his youngest, Wenscel, to come help him dismount—he always had troubles with that part. 

This thrice-damned leg… 

The boy, a youth of a twelve with umber curls and amber eyes, darted out from the hearth room with a grave look. 

“Ho there, Wenscel,” Dunlad said, venturing a cracked smile, “Help your father if you would.” 

Wenscel was still of the age when children loved their fathers without discrimination or pretext. He liked them better that way—for his eldest, Odo, displayed all the ill effects of pubescence. Wenscel’s eyes still had an innocence about them, and an inquisitiveness which implied that he would be no doughty gallocman like his brother. But, according to Dunlad, there wasn’t a single thing wrong with that. 

He had thought that the boy wore a strange face when he had emerged due to the impending threat of the raid—perhaps he was afraid (rightly so), and trying to hide it behind a veil of stoicism. But Wenscel said little even after they had led Dunlad’s mare to the stable, and he knew that something seemed amiss. 

“What’s the matter, boy?” he asked, in wry tones, “I haven’t raised a mute, now have I? How is your mother?” 

“It’s about that, father…” Wenscel replied softly, his eyes still trained on the earth. 

Dunlad crossed the threshold to the sound of weeping. Feana knelt on the rushes before the hearth, her thick raven hair wild and threaded with ashes. 

“What’s this about then?” 

He glanced to the far wall, where the arms and armor of his late master, Mochan, were reverently arrayed—at least, usually so. There Odo stood, Mochan’s unsheathed blade in hand and adorned with the etched leather cuirass which was still scarred by the leavings of forgotten edges. His eyes, blue as the Beatha’s course (where that color had emerged in the line he knew not, for neither he nor his wife had it in their blood), regarded him with an aloof elegance beneath a crown of chestnut locks. 

Somehow I don’t think this will end well, he thought. 

“Father,” Odo said, trying his very best to appear booming and broad. He raised his sword arm, and pointed the tip directly at him from across the hall. 

“I am going to fight!” he declared, proudly, with an air of finality, “And no one will stop me, least of all you!” 

There was a pregnant moment, taut with tension, and interrupted only by the popping of the fire and Feana’s stifled sobs. 

Then, Dunlad erupted into a spurt of gruff laughter. Feana, her eyes limned with red and still glazed with tears, regarded him curiously, whereas Wenscel comported a similar expression. 

Finally, he limped to the fireside bench and seated himself heavily. He whispered to Wenscel to fetch him a skin of water and a platter of seed bread, maors (a type of seasoned lard of which he was fond) and honey, then turned his gaze to Odo, who still stood firmly with blade outstretched, like a heroic fetish. 

“Cease with this mummers’ farce, son,” he began, softly, “I am weary, and will not have you point at me with some rusted sword as if I were a thrall. Let us speak of this as men.” 

Odo, endeavoring to maintain his unyielding aura, lowered the sword with an elegant gesture which smacked more than a little of the theatrical. Brusquely, he sat upon the opposite bench, and, hands crossed atop the pommel, drove the tip into packed earth beneath the rushes. 

“As you wish,” he said grimly, “Let us speak as men.” 

A brief moment of silence passed. Then, quite without warning, Dunlad imploded. 

“Look what you have done to your mother!” he raged, slamming a knotted fist onto the bench beside him, “Have you no shame, you imp? She scatters ashes into her hair and still you will not abandon this foolishness? You will crawl upon your knees and kiss her feet, you whelp!” 

Feana began to weep again. 

“I knew it, I knew!” Odo spat, brows furrowing, “You would deny me my right as a clansman, to defend my tula—“ 

“Your right! Your right! What makes you think—“ 

“You should know, father! You sit on the Council! I am of age, I have been trained in the weapon arts, and yet you would rob me of what is mine.” 

“Odo—“ 

“We are vastly outnumbered, and need all the able bodies that we have. You understand this, as much as anyone, and yet still you and mother would have me sit idle while kerns are put to the sword. Who will account for their deaths? Will it be you? Or shall it be mother?” 

“Hold your tongue, boy,” Dunlad warned, “You say nothing of your mother.” 

Odo closed his eyes, collecting his thoughts. A silence reigned as Wenscel meekly brought the requested platter, although Dunlad only preoccupied himself with the water. 

Finally, Odo continued, “I have trained for this day, father. You have supported me on that account. You have wished me to be a gallocman all my life. Both you and mother knew it would come. Why, then, do you pause?” 

“I…” Dunlad ventured, softly, “…I did not foresee Harlaus’ treachery. I did not foresee the Valley.” 

He studied the flames for a moment, “We have lost much and stand to lose much—“ 

“Do not say that, father,” Odo interjected, sharply, “We both know how much you have gained in coming here. Land. Wealth. Title. Regard. Cattle. A seat on the Council. You have lost nothing but a view of the mountains.” 

“You’re not wrong, my lad,” Dunlad replied, sighing, “In fact, you’re quite right. But what is it all worth if I lose you, my boy?” 

Twilight had now descended, and the fire began to cast sarabands of shadow across the hall. The pungent aroma of blue peppers and toasted seeds trailed from the platter. Wenscel popped a honey-slathered morsel in his mouth, the crunch shattering the silence. 

“No father should have to bury his own child.” 

“I see,” Odo whispered, studying his father’s downcast face, “Then you are afraid.” 

“For the clan, yes.” 

“You act as though you are still a kern,” Odo said without expression, and stood, hands still clasping the sword pommel. 

“I go now to offer my sword to Clan Aonghus, and will fight, and die, if need be, in the name of Urak.”  

The only sound left by his leaving was the rush of his cloak in the night air. 

Gallocmen, Dunlad thought, all the same. 

He wondered if fathers and sons had played such roles with one another since the gods made the world and set the stars in motion. 

For a time the room lay mute as the shadows lengthened and danced on the walls. Finally, Feana, his poor wife, rose to her knees and looked at him with heavy lidded eyes. She had, he thought, never been a pretty woman, but had a certain handsomeness—perhaps the way her long nose played with her winking eyes and scarlet cheeks—which had endeared her to him. He thought it peculiar that, caked in ashes and tears, her once peach-like cheeks wrinkled by the years, her once full form trimmed to waifishness, she did look quite handsome indeed. 

“I’m sorry, Dunlad,” she began, her voice reed-like, “for all this.” 

He drew her up from the rushes and gave her some water to moisten her hoarse throat. He asked Wenscel to fetch a wet cloth and he stroked the ashes from her hair until it ran black again. Then, he busied himself with the cleaning of her clothes, while Wenscel snoozed in the corner, a woven blanket wrapped around him. 

They ate wordlessly from the platter, a brief and cold repast washed down by lukewarm water. Directly afterwards, Feana collapsed into bed, without removing her clothes or gathering up the coverlet to ward away the night’s chill. 

Dunlad stole into the pantry, poured himself a horn of ale, and drank deeply, replenishing it four times more before electing to fill a waterskin with the stuff. Gathering his cloak about him, he went out into the night. 

The stars were out, coruscating dully beneath a veil of clouds, and a balmy wind from the south whispered through the grazing grasses. His mind was flooded with thoughts of the battle to come, of Eliz the dark child and Maire the alchemist, and most of all, of his sons. He drank intermittently as he roamed the broad pasture, stopping here and there to catch his breath, as his limp made it difficult to walk so far and the drink only added insult to injury. Finally, he found a knoll, fragrant with wildflowers, on which to rest his head. 

Beholding the stars, he held up his hand to regard the ring which Mochan had given to his care before his demise, on the road to Hidden Valley. 

This, faithful Dunlad, is the ring of my house, he had said, barely above a whisper, Keep it so that you may remember me as I was, the last hollow husk of a great line—and so that you may have an example to which you may aspire. Whereas I signify an end, you, I think, represent a beginning. 

He laughed, clearly and brightly, ringing like a bell in the night air. 

Then, he drank broad and deep, until both thought and feeling had abandoned him.
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