Illos caught her Seneschal's eye and briefly winked across at him. She was an old lady now, with grey hair and many a wrinkle around her eye, but she still had a certain charm that let her sing songs as a minstrel.

She was a liability in combat, but then she never really took to the field much, staying around the hearth fires of the League and then disappearing off to here for a few days.


She suspected that someday people would realise that one or two of her stories were tales of Hibernia converted for an Albion audience, and she expecially wondered if they knew that play she's put on last year was a story from Trollhiem! Ah well liekly not, a King here and a Knight there soon glossed over the minds of the unwary and led them to think Albion was the be all and end all of life. heh, but for a good marching song you couldn't beat a dwarf. Worked well for drinking too!


She knew the secret that all the best songsters of the realm knew, regardless of their power in battles: all songs and stories tell of the common things, the interconnecting threads of life. It has all been seen and sung before, and the endless variety in which the world redresses itself is to be marvelled at. She slipped back to her seat next to the young lady she'd been talkign to.


The little girl wore a black and white striped cloth of some sort and had the most enchanting blue eyes, and a voice to help enthrall the audience. "Now tell me" Illos picked up the conversation where they left off "what was this new song about a boy, Avril?"

Tatton's eyes just locked with Ayslyn's at the mention of "Mundy". With that he thought to himself.


"It has been long since I have woven tales, or sang ths song of Awakening, or listened to the songs of the stream." Tatton realized that he had foresaken his position, and looked around at the gathered crowd. "I Am Bardagh... even still."


"ou ask a long tale," He spoke to Ayslyn, "I will indeed tell of Mundy, and how she came to me." Tatton raised a brow, "at least in this life."


Tatton stepped up on the table and spoke, a bit of strength returning to his voice.


"I will share a shortened tale with you all. One that is very close to my heart."


"It is known in our lands, that a spirit does not wither and end at one's death. In a never ending cycle, our spirits await rebirth. As we shed one shell, to partake the next.


"Sometimes," Tatton bowed his head a bit, then raised it to the look at the outlanders," sometimes, spirits find a kinship that bind them through each life. A... 'destiny' if you will. These are our soul companions."


"Mundy is such to me. I found her in our village grove. And by twist of all that is, in this life her spirit inhabited a tall oak tree. I spent my youth, in that grove, listening to the songs of nature. And fell to sleep many a starlit night, comforted in the branches of Mundy. She spoke to me, in ways that cannot be told."


"The blaze began on a storm weathered night, and my heart fell as I ran to the grove. Mundy, stricken by lightning had cindered. But There was some wood un-damaged, and with this I found a craftsman of variable skill. And he formed that shell into a lute. Mundy was once again a vibrant spirit. Her memories were deeper than my own, and she knew me from far away times. She was my companion."


Tatton clutched something inside of his jerkin and looked about the room. His eyes set once again to Fatima.


"Mundy was my voice." Still reciting Tatton strode across the room towards the Albion lass, "I am asked where Mundy is today... she is with me.... Always with me..." as Tatton approached Fatima his voice softened a bit. "But due to dealings, and treachery, her voice is silenced." Tatton reached in his pack with one hand, and produced a flute. "She speaks to me no longer." He bowed his reddened eyes a bit.


Tatton brought out the flute and offered it to Fatima.


"It has no enchantment, but it has provided much merriment to our realm... please take it lass." He paused a moment. "No one should be without a voice." He spoke softly to the outlander. His free hand still clucthing inside of his jerkin.

 

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Crispian leaned back, mostly observing, and nodded slightly to Illos. The worn old crone could tell a good tale, and he did not buy completely the innocent act she carried out at times. She knew a lot more than she let on.

 

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Raelyn laughed gently as the young Briton extacted himself from the dance and went to join his friend at the bar. She caught the taller one looking at her and she winked saucily at him and he smiled and raised his flagon in return.


Raelyn, Chanell and Raelian danced a few more tunes and Raelian begged off to sit, and Raelyn went to fetch thier drinks.


"Time to pay for your drink, miss." The bartender smiled and informed her. Raelyn thought of what tale could entertain this crowd, and stood to the center.


" A passing skald of some talent by the name of Sahate told me this tale from the lands of Midgard, and I in turn share it with you, though I have not the skill of a true bard," she tipped her drink in Tatton's direction.


" So it begins..the Tale of Vom and the Albion Catapult"


"This was a very long time ago, back when the Fastes were little more than piled stone and mortar and the Realms had barely begun to feel the hatred for each other. There came a force from Albion led by Dirk Evnor. They came with a thing the forces of Midgard had not yet seen, the catapult.


With this awful machine they rolled across the Midgard frontier, taking keep after keep and leaving fields littered with the corpses of Midgard heroes and boulders. Their catapults seemed an unstoppable force, killing Norseman and dwarf alike at ranges that could not be believed.


All the way to Fensalir they came before they stopped, seeming content to stay with in the keep and break every attempt by Midgard to take it back. The clearing outside the keep become a zone of death into which no man could tread without being taken down by a hail of catapult fire. The tin-plated bastards inside would throw insults in an attempt to enrage the forces of Midgard into rushing the keep. The few times that happened resulted in many Midgard death and the laughter of the Albions that lines the walls of Fensalir. Dirk himself stood over the gate and smiled as the carnage went on.


There seemed to be no answer to this catapult, and the gathered forces of Midgard were disheartened, their lust for battle about to break. The word had gone out however, and the call had been answered.


With a crash of trees and the sound of falling scree, Vom entered the clearing outside Fensalir. At his side was his pet cockatrice, Bird. The two went everywhere together and it was said that when they locked gazes it was Bird that wound up mesmerized.


You see, Vom was about as troll as one could get. He had a face like raw granite and a smile that could make women barren. He was said to have the strength of a mountain, and to be just as tough.


Anyway, into that clearing walked Vom, with Bird at his side, as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Some of the Midgard forces already there tried to warn Vom, but he didn’t seem to hear.


Dirk laughed at the stupidity of this particular troll, and his toadies laughed with him. He called for a single catapult to fire. With the thunk of wood striking wood, a rock the size of a horse sailed through the air and came down on Vom with uncanny accuracy. Vom never moved, just watched calmly as doom flew toward him.


The boulder hit his chest with a thump that shook the clearing and a grunt came from his lips as he was knocked back a couple of steps. The Albions jeered and laughed, but this soon died out under the sound of an avalanche, echoing throughout the valley of Fensalir. Vom himself was laughing, and laughing so hard he had to hold his belly.


Cheers sprang up here and there amongst the gathered Midgard, heartened by this display of defiance and strength. Dirk wasn’t having any. With a curse he called for all catapults to fire and the sky darkened with a storm of stones.


Vom disappeared in a cloud of dust and rock as the barrage continued. When the catapults finally stopped there was no sound from within the dust cloud, no laughter from Vom. The forces of Midgard fell hushed, stunned by the ferocity of the attack that had taken down Vom. Their hush was broken by the wild victory cheers from the keep.


Whiel the Albions patted themselves on the back and Dirk accepted the boot-licking of his fellow scum, a breeze sprang up in the field and cleared away the dust cloud. Bloody and battered, Vom still stood there, staring down at his feet. Bird was dead, killed by the crush of stone that only Vom could have survived.


Vom bowed his head and a chill went through Midgard and Albion alike as he loosed the mournful sound of a mountain breaking. No one had ever heard a troll in the throes of heart’s pain before. Underneath the sound, one could hear laughter from the keep. Dirk, the Albion commander.


Vom looked up with blood in his eye and vengeance on his face. He picked up Bird and gave him one last shake of affection. In a gesture of contempt for the Albion war machines, Vom made a miniature catapult with his hand and with a single finger, he sent that turkey sailing straight at the Albion commander.


Bird’s scale body flew through the air, a truer missile was never seen. Dirk caught it square in the face and it knocked him clean off the gate. The sound of his neck cracking when he hit the ground could be heard outside the keep. The Albions on the wall were stunned and horrified. Then all hell broke loose as a storm of arrows cleared the wall of Albions, and a horde of trolls broke from the treeline and annihilated the gates.


Vom was a crafty old troll. Before he had stepped in the clearing, he had set the Nightrunner kobold clan to sneaking about with their bows. His own Stone Brother clan of trolls had set themselves in position to rush the keep the moment the catapults were cleared.


It was a massacre, a mark against the Albions forever, a defeat caused by their arrogance and cruelty. Albions were thrown from Fensalir by their own catapults and within a month ever other keep on the frontier was reclaimed, the Albions driven back to their lands with their tails tucked between their legs.


Though few have heard of the tale, many unwittingly make tribute to that day at Fensalir. The forces of Midgard took to reminding Albion of their humiliation that day by showing Vom’s catapult. Fist outthrust, middle finger raised, Midgards have been ‘flipping the Bird’ at Albions ever since."


She curtsied winked at the blond Briton for good measure, and sat with her friends.

The Innkeeper reached for the Champion's sword as Adelia bounded across the last few feet between the crowd and the door. A strange sensation came over him at the sound of the man's voice. There was a glamour in it! Drawing on his will, Suilebhain shook off the effects, his Elven nature breaking through the mindweb of faerie construction like the blade he held in his right hand. Though she was petite, Adelia almost bowled him over as she stood on her toes and pulled his face down to hers for a kiss, partially because he was unprepared for this type of reception. The feel of her warm, soft lips on his melted his heart immediately, and he could forgive her any foolishness short of infidelity. He still could not shake the feeling that something was amiss. He cut the kiss short as she said, "Hello, a ghra. 'Tis alright, ye can give the man yer sword, the most dangerous thing I've seen here was a 'keen who got sick all over himself. I've a table over there, ye come have dinner with yer wife and maybe take her for a spin on the dancefloor."


His eyes followed her gesture, but not before scanning the room. Over her shoulder, he saw a sight that caused his mind to reel for a moment, leaving him in momentary disbelief.


He saw the bard Tatton, who had somehow become entangled with his clan in ways that left him baffled, something about revenge, and a lute with the spirit of a tree contained within it, and how one of his brothers had allowed the lute to fall into the hands of Tatton's enemy. He saw Ayslyn, now talking to the bard. His eyes narrowed with suspicion at the presence of the ranger in this place, and in his absence. Somehow, Ayslyn always seemed to be lurking around Adelia whenever he was not present. His heart sank momentarily. Then he recalled that Ayslyn had a way of being almost everywhere, and he dispelled the jealousy. He saw a man in a kilt - a Highlander! Suilebhain's hand tightened its grip on his sword. He saw the Nawg lad he had spent time with in Darkness Falls the night before he set out, when it became obvious that Adelia was not coming back. There was Raelyn, a true nature spirit if ever he met one, flitting about kissing people. There were two people, a man and a woman, not Celts judging by their armor. The woman was tall, blonde, and beautiful, having a Norse cast to her. The man was heavily armored, probably a paladin by his bearing. There was a Saracen lass. A Saracen?? In Hibernia, and without a sword sticking through her?


Suilebhain's hatred for Saracens began the night he sat on the hillside facing Caer Caledonia and the filthy assassins kept taking down a mentalist who had been scouring the area for shadowblades. The lad was only doing what he knew best, but the foolish Albs would continue to get into his magical sphere and get angry when they sustained damage. THeir anger would turn into a cowardly back attack, followed by a fading into the shadows. Once, when he caught one who had taken the mentalist down after he had followed another standard practice, clearing the bridge, he had decided enough was enough and began to chase her around, beating on the Saracen female with his sword until some muttonheaded Highlander stepped in. It took three of them to kill him, and even then the Hibernians who were present chided him for his behavior. Honor was dying like milk on hot pavement in Hibernia, and was already dead in the bastardized land of the dead king.


"No, lad, I think not. Grab yer stuff, a ghra. We're leaving. Ye already missed the wedding, and people are beginning to think ye dead."


"What do ye mean, missed the wedding? Ayslyn said it had nae happened yet," Adelia responded, looking askance at her husband, as if looking for some sign of a trick.


"I left to find ye just after it happened. It has been days that I ha searched for ye." He thought to the glamour of this place, and remembered the tales of the timeless nature of Tir na nOg in the days when Elves ruled Hibernia, not the empty, near lifeless city that now held that name. He thought to the chaos that now plagued that city, the violence of the duels, the mayhem of exploding craftsmen, the craft tables defiling the sacntity of the Druid Grove. He fought back the tears, and turned his head slightly.


"We need to leave. This place is dangerous," Suilebhain said, eyes scanning the room one more time and avoiding the gaze of Morden the barkeep.


He looked to the crowd and shouted into the room, "e all should leave this place! There is an enchantment here and ye doona even know what day it is anymore!" He was not surprised when no one seemed to listen at first. It was always that way when he tried to tell anyone anything important.


The Champion turned to his wife, his eyes and voice soft and pleading. "Do not let this place hold ye under its sway, a ghra. Come home with me."

Ayslyn shook his head sadly. He whispered to Tatton as the lad took his seat again. "For being out of practice, lad, you dance about a question well." He grinned, taking the sting out of his words. "Very well then," he continued, "I'll offer up a trade. Some of my tale, for yours."


Suilebhain's proclomation silenced the room, making it easy for Ayslyn to command everyone's attention. He bounded up onto the stage, and with a bow, and a flourish, drew all eyes to him. "My friends," he began, "I paid for my drinks long ago. However, I have been coming here for some time and wish to make another payment." He bowed low to Morden, who smiled and nodded. "I am Ayslyn Greenwillow, Chosen Champion of the goddess Rhiannon, and a humble," he grined as several people chuckled, "es humble defender of justice. There are those that doubt in me, or think me crazed. Well, perhaps they are right," he paused, grinning, "But not about that. I was born long ago, in a land farther away that many of you could imagine. I grew up, and learned the ways of the wood, the bow, the hunt. I was a Ranger, and a Champion of Light. I met boon companions, and vile enemies. I fought dragons, and liches; dark elves and bugbears. And I met the most lovely woman that I had and have ever seen," he smiled and closed his eyes before continuing, "In my youth -- and for an elf, that is a long time indeed -- I was quite the wild rover," he smiled at Suilebhain, "Entertaining ladies the realm over. I made no promises, save for the night, and flitted from woman to woman. Until I met Esme. I fell in love immediately, and knew that my days as a rover were done. Though," he chuckled, "I must tell you, that it took some great effort on my part to convince her that I had changed my roving ways. Esme completed me in ways that I never even knew I was incomplete. She was the twin half of my soul. For ten years we were married. Until, while defending the walls of the city we had built, she was killed in a blast of dragonfire. As Tatton can tell you, losing the other half of your soul can be a most painful event. I waited, living from day to day, for over six centuries. Knowing that in death, we would be reunited. My friends and I continued to fight the forces of evil and to make the world better for everyone. Finally, in my eighth century of life, Rhiannon came to me. She asked me to forgo my reunion with Esme, and to come with her to a distant land that was in need of heroes. A land where the people could not live in peace. She made the perfect offer. People were suffering and I could not, in good conscience let them. The gods choose heroes as their champions because they know they can not refuse. With Esme's support, I accepted and was reborn here, in Hibernia. I have lived more than two centuries here, and grown to love this land as I did my home. I have carried the love of my wife, for more than eight-hundred years," he paused, his eyes locked with Suilebhain's. "Many do not believe who I am. Many do not believe in she whom I follow. They think me mad." The door burst open as Rags bounded into the common room. Adelia's lynx uncurled from her spot at Adelia's table and both of them leapt to the stage. They took up positions on either side of Ayslyn, standing attendance on him. He smiled, gently at both of them. "But I know that I am not. So I ask you friends. Would the chosen champion of a goddess be befuddled by simple charms and spells? Would he be bereft of his wits by sorceries? Moreover, would these fine creatures, sent by the Goddess to guard her druids be fooled by such tricks as well. Put up your sword Suilebhain. Let go your anger for a night. Trust." He smiled and stepped down from the stage.

 

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She sat at a stool and carefully snapped beans, separating the edible center length from the end pieces in an almost trance-like state. There was always work to be done in the Crossroads kitchen, and for that Fatima was grateful. Her hands did not know how to be idle.


Margery appeared at the door with a giddy look upon her face, the excitement bringing Fatima out of her daydreams. She widened her eyes at Margery in curiosity.

"Morden says yer man is 'ere! Yual? Is that his name? Tall fellow. Massive actually. Wearin' a kilt. Sound like him?"

Fatima sucked in a breath. Could he really be here? A smile spread across her face and she stood, reaching for a rag on which to wipe her hands. Margery motioned towards the table at which Fatima had been sitting. There she saw a familiar elven man sitting, looking up at a large Highlander man holding a small cloak and a tiny book. It was him! He seemed distracted, and had not yet seen her.

Her mind raced. Should she run over and embrace him? Should she wait for him to see her? Margery prodded her forward and she began to walk towards her love.


After only a few steps, Fatima suddenly came face to face with a rather sad looking man. He wielded a wooden flute in one hand and hid the other firmly inside his jerkin. Was he drunk? He did not seem to be, but there was an overwhelming sadness surrounding him. Fatima took a step back, glancing over the bard's shoulder towards Yual.

"Please take it lass. No one should be without a voice," the flute wielder spoke softly to her.

Fatima covered her mouth with her hand and stared at the bard. She was shocked to have been noticed by the man, and further surprised by his offer. Still, Yual was here and she needed to get to him. She did not raise her hand to accept the flute, but glanced again towards Yual. He was no longer there! Her eyes darted around the room while the bard stood in front of her, extending the flute towards her in offering. He was sad, and seemed kind; it tugged on her heart. Still, Yual was here somewhere!

She bit her lip and looked into the bard's eyes.

Suilebhain cleared his throat, studying Ayslyn's face.


"Well, Ayslyn, I know ye, aye, and I like ye, but I also know that the wedding ye have only just commented on as being in the planning stage has come and gone, having come from there meself and traveled this distance to find me wife," he paused, making sure that the words were sinking in, "and it has been days since I left, as time goes in the realm outside."


ooc- this is the problem with tying "In game" events with RP fiction on the boards in an interactive nature. One of us has to be mistaken...

Tipping the innkeep a few coins, Crispian and Tobyas disappeared for a few moments to a room and came down better suited to revel and merrimaking.


Crispian had traded heavy platemail for a fine tunic of pearl gray over hose of rich crimson and trews of a sable-tone. Soft leather boots dyed a deep rust were on his feet, and the chain of seneschal rested easy on his shoulders. All in all, he looked much the part of a young noble man, although the finery took an edge off his appearance and made him look more youthful. Perched at an angle about his golden blond hair was a court-hat of black velvet trimmed out in the double-ermine of a lord. His sword gone, he wore the plain white belt of a knight about his waist, accent the wide-cut of his shoulders and the taper to an athlete's waist.


Following him, Tobyas had also altered himself from battle-cleric to established young man. He himself had more simple tastes and had changed into a long cassock of deep crimson, which was belted at the waist with a knight's sash. His head was unadorned and the small tonsure of a religios was obvious. A heavy gold chain of C's circled his neck loosely and from it hung the gorget of Precentor to the Order of the Crest. Low, soft shoes hissed softly on the wood floor as they re-entered the room and claimed their seats again.

 

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Tatton peered at Fitama, he studied her closely. There were many emotions in the eyes of this lass. A yearning as she tried to look past him, then she had looked at him with eyes that felt pity for himself.


Tatton looked perplexed. The yearning did revive old memories that Tatton understood. The pity awoke Tatton's awareness of himself even further. He placed the lute on the floor at Fatima's feet.


"Everyone needs a voice," He spoke once again.


Then he turned back to his table and listened intently as Suilebaihne made a commotion with his enterance, and Ayslyn spun his tale.


"This is indeed a strange place, where time and borders do not truly exist." Tatton thought to himself. "I was at the ceremony Suilehbaine spake of, that I am certain. But these 'Crossroads', they are timeless. And language is no boundary." Tatton's stomach grumbled as he turned his attention to the stew set in front of him. "Must be druid magic, and druid dreams here. I prefer not to think on such things." He was hungry.

 

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