Eyes of the Crebain (April 3010) - [Bradán]
Jul 23, 2018 17:25:43 GMT -5
Post by Fiachra on Jul 23, 2018 17:25:43 GMT -5
“Fly, Ceallach,” Fiachra said to the bird upon her shoulder. One short caw the creban offered, large, velvet wings taking him to flight as he seemingly leapt from her, rising easily into the air. The young woman watched, eyeing the bird as it rose, winging forward over the hill and toward the village she knew was on the other side, its black kith moving to follow. None but Ceallach had a name, though this was her family.
She returned once more to squat amongst the golden grasses of the Gap, drawing her arrows from her quiver to run a finger over the black fletching. Ceallach was a clever bird; he would know well what to look for, what trinket to return to communicate his findings, and he would not take long to make his sweep. His wings carried him quickly, his eyes aided by magic long past.
His flock—their flock—would do the same as they always did. Scout for signs of reinforcement. Then it was up to Fiachra to determine if it was worth burning, raiding, or both in the appropriate order.
Thieves. Usurpers.
Her brow bent and twisted, lip sharp in scowl as she once more returned her armaments to their place at her hip. The young woman stood, a fire to her boot as she paced for a moment. Rohan had taken everything from her people; they drove them into the inhospitable, rocky region of Dunland, never caring that the tombs of her people, the bones of her forebears, were beneath the very cities they built.
He own people's lives had become little more than eking out an existence. There was no prosperity, there was no safety. Goblins from the mountains looked to her people for their night-raids, the Rohirrim, the horse-lords—they cut down her people where they trod. They called those of Dunland savage, forgetting that they first had been the savages.
If blood once more returned her home, though, Fiachra would drain them all. One by one, unto King Theoden himself. She would not rest until they all had fallen, until she stood once more upon the graves of her people, that she might give them the honor they were due.
The cold cries of the crebain, the caws and cold laughter Fiachra thought a comfort, once more began to rise over the hill. A quick sweep.
They would disappear, drop down about her, and Ceallach would give her the token. Either there would be a stone to warn of danger, or nothing given at all to mean it was hers for the taking. Fiachra hoped the creban came empty-clawed; she had a bow that thirsted.
She returned once more to squat amongst the golden grasses of the Gap, drawing her arrows from her quiver to run a finger over the black fletching. Ceallach was a clever bird; he would know well what to look for, what trinket to return to communicate his findings, and he would not take long to make his sweep. His wings carried him quickly, his eyes aided by magic long past.
His flock—their flock—would do the same as they always did. Scout for signs of reinforcement. Then it was up to Fiachra to determine if it was worth burning, raiding, or both in the appropriate order.
Thieves. Usurpers.
Her brow bent and twisted, lip sharp in scowl as she once more returned her armaments to their place at her hip. The young woman stood, a fire to her boot as she paced for a moment. Rohan had taken everything from her people; they drove them into the inhospitable, rocky region of Dunland, never caring that the tombs of her people, the bones of her forebears, were beneath the very cities they built.
He own people's lives had become little more than eking out an existence. There was no prosperity, there was no safety. Goblins from the mountains looked to her people for their night-raids, the Rohirrim, the horse-lords—they cut down her people where they trod. They called those of Dunland savage, forgetting that they first had been the savages.
If blood once more returned her home, though, Fiachra would drain them all. One by one, unto King Theoden himself. She would not rest until they all had fallen, until she stood once more upon the graves of her people, that she might give them the honor they were due.
The cold cries of the crebain, the caws and cold laughter Fiachra thought a comfort, once more began to rise over the hill. A quick sweep.
They would disappear, drop down about her, and Ceallach would give her the token. Either there would be a stone to warn of danger, or nothing given at all to mean it was hers for the taking. Fiachra hoped the creban came empty-clawed; she had a bow that thirsted.