"The Fields of Hibernia" First Full Release
Alright everyone, here is the first full draft of Cadwgawn's background, "The Fields of Hibernia." Please, rip it the hell to shreads. I beg you to do so, in order to help me.
New Text is in blue.
Scenes added: "A Return to the Battlefield" and "The Same Old New Beginings"
New Characters: Shamus MacTavish, Robert O'Toole (Padraig)
Characters elaborated on in new scene: Áliann Tine, Maetremo
The Fiona woman squealed in a mix of pleasure and self disgust as one of the trolls finished with her. He stepped away and left her broken and used against the table in the long hall. She curled up upon herself as sobbing wracked her body against the hard wood. Another of his trolls moved towards the poor woman, but the Lord had seen enough.
“No more.” Cadwgawn said, rising from the high seat of the hall. He descended down from his seat, moving towards the surly troll.
“This bitch is mine by right of conquest!” he roared as he grabbed the sidhe’s legs and pulled her onto her belly once more.
“I said that is enough.” Lord Cadwgawn responded, his voice not lifting. The boys’ blood was up, which was to be expected after so brutal and crushing a victory, so this sort of thing had to be dealt with delicately.
“Bugger off!” the Troll shouted as he dropped his cloth.
The lord had heard all he would on the matter though. Battle or no battle, right or no right, such disobedience could not be allowed. In an instant he held his dagger in hand, and before the troll could further damage the deposed lady, he found a new smile opening across his throat, his warm blood a rivulet cascading upon her and the table. It was her hall really (or rather it had been before their victory) and while he did in fact take great enjoyment at her degradation from puissant lady and ruler to little more then a common bar wench in her own hall, he had other uses for her.
She looked up at him from the table, smoothing what was left of her skirts over her abused body. Her look was one of mild relief at the end of her torture, but there was something else there, hidden behind a wall of civility and manners… something that even the most keen observer of the nuances of such a defense would not pick up on, but a look he was used to getting. Pity.
“Thank you, your lordship,” she said ever so quietly, her head bowed slightly in subservience, but her eyes held a quiet nobility and dignity as they regarded him sideways, attempting to ignore what she saw. “You fucking bitch,” he thought as he returned her cordial smile. She was naturally oblivious to his opinion of her; her feelings were clear, as she was seeing the horror of him for the first time. It was not the first time he saw that look… and it would not be the last.
><><><
Bran Cerwyn woke abruptly from what was usually a deep, untroubled sleep. He gently touched the rough skin around his blighted eye, feeling the light sheen of sweat that had collected over his skin. His limited vision quickly adjusted to the lack of light in his room; it was his after all. After a moment, he slid from the bed to his feet, looking around in the darkness. Odd dreams had woken him before, but never so vivid, so wild. He moved to the mini-fridge under his desk and retrieved a bottle of water. His mouth had gone bone dry, and the water tasted fresher to him then any he had ever drunk. He took a deep breath before returning the bottle to the refrigerator and slid back into bed.
Sleep came to him easily once more… and with sleep came another dream…
><><><
The Gwydion Commander sat astride his horse, a slight smile crossing his lips as he gazed down the hill. Before him fifty of his best men slid down the hill towards the meager line of enemy forces before him. Fifteen knights sat mounted, concealed beneath a line of trees, awaiting the Tuathan forces to take the field.
“At last,” Lord Garlan thought to himself as his men formed their own battles lines, “I will finally be done with these mercenaries that have been so problematic to our plans.” Thoughts of being able to finally push the flight of the Balor to the sea, and then, pushed against the anvil of the cool shore he would be the hammer to end their insurrection.
As the Gwydion skirmishers lined up at the bottom of the hill, their horses whinnied uneasily as though something were amiss. After a moment, the riders caught the scent as a soft fog, thick with the stench of death rolled across the field and the marauders slid out from under the line of trees. Their mounts stood strong against the stench and the riders did not waver against it. However in a moment the skirmishers had steadied their horses and the Knight Commander of their corps held his sword aloft in a salute to his lord before turning to address his enemy. His gaze lingered there for a moment before he thrust his sword forward, shouting “Charge!”
The Gwydion skirmishers plunged forward across the vast field and the fog grew thick for a moment before the eyes of Lord Garlan. He coughed mildly at the smell of death and brought his mount into line before looking back up. As the mist cleared, he noticed another figure moving forward of the Balor battle line. The man was of great stature, sitting high in his saddle, wearing a helmet of black leather with a veil of forged iron chain mail. For a moment his heart went cold.
“Cadwgawn.”
And in a moment, the figure had pulled the bow from his side and let fly a single quarrel. It arced through the air, finding a home in the chest of one of the skirmishers near the front. A blood curdling scream engulfed all other sounds, echoing in the air with pain and terror as the knight convulsed and tumbled from his horse, voice burning into the memory of Lord Garlan. It was a telling scream. A scream of iron.
In a moment more quarrels filled the air, launched from the Balor battle line. Now a cacophony of pain and terror filled the air and chaos reigned amongst the Gwydion battle lines. Horsemen fell about the field, a sickening spectacle of the cruelty of the House Balor. Another flight of quarrels rained down on the beleaguered chargers and their number was halved in screams of burning terror.
And still the remaining skirmishers charged on. Slowly, Cadwgawn lowered his longbow to the side of his mount, dropping it down to the ground. His hands moved just under his ears as he unhooked one side of the veil and pulled the helmet from his head, his long chestnut hair matted to his scalp by sweat.
His squire moved to take the helmet as Cadwgawn’s eyes searched for Lord Garlan. He found him at the crest of the hill, his face red with rage, a runner moving from him, away from the battle itself. “Blood for the blood gods,” he said softly handing his helmet over to his squire as the sound of another flight of quarrels. The sight of the collapsing forces and the renewed anguish of their battle drew Cadwgawn’s eyes up and he met eyes with the Knight Commander, the lone remaining foe as he charged in.
Cadwgawn spurred his mount to the front as his squire dismounted and picked up the discarded longbow. He slowly moved towards the charging rider at a deliberate pace, his eyes as focused on the ground below him as they were on his approaching foe. His eyes moved up as he reigned up his horse. His enemy was within thirty feet of him, yet he made no move for a weapon.
But then it happened; the knight commander’s horse reared up in pain, an iron caltrop imbedded in a hoof. A flight of arrows flew around Cadwgawn and eviscerated the maimed horse, its weight carrying it backwards, pinning the knight beneath its mass. Cadwgawn slid lithely from his horse, pulling a long iron dirk from his waist, moving over to the body of the knight, ripping off his helm.
“Blood for the blood gods,” he said once more as he grabbed the hair of the fallen knight. The Cold Iron dagger sliced through his throat like a hot knife through butter until it hit the bones of the neck. Cadwgawn replaced the dirk in his belt and put his hands at either side of his head, pulling up and twisting, ripping the head from his body.
As he hoisted the head high in the air, a cheer went up from his men. Blood cascaded from what was once the proud knight’s throat and christened himself in it. His eye moved again to Lord Garlan and he smiled before moving back to his horse and riding back to his men.
><><><
Bran awoke abruptly to the sound of an alarm clock encroaching upon him. The sweet silence descended on him a moment later as he roused himself from bed. He could still taste the victory of his dream, could still feel the warmth of the blood splattered across his face. His chest swelled with pride at the thought of the victory as he moved to put on the days clothes and he took up the staff that he carried with him at work. It was a queer thing for the modern world maybe, but he always felt better with it in hand, especially when he needed to see to the boss’s business.
It was going to be a busy day. Syracuse and Kansas had both been upset out of the first round of the NCAA tournament and a lot of people had them going pretty far. Bran had been working for loan sharks in the city since his senior year in high school. His life had never been an easy one.
Bran was born to Chloe and Liam Cerwyn of Ann Arbor, MI in the fall of 1985. Premature and born with an initially undiagnosed case of the measles, he was maimed, his left eye blinded before the grievous mistake could be corrected. His parents cared horribly for him and were greatly overprotective. Chloe was a school teacher, but she left her job with the Board of Ed. to home-school young Bran while Liam brought home money as a trainer for the Michigan Wolverines football team.
Bran could never go out for sports like other kids would because no doctor would clear him for sports being completely blind in one eye. However, Liam saw the natural strength in his son and personally saw to training him before and after work. He even helped him while he was working for the one season Bran was a waterboy for the team. He hoped that someday he could be an Olympic lifter, or, if they were ever able to recover his site, a wrestler or football player.
But Chloe was overprotective of her boy. She kept him home schooled until the age of eight, putting him into school to both acclimate him to people his own age and as much to keep him busy once his father was promoted to head trainer for the entire Michigan sports program. It didn’t go over well, however. Being the new kid was never fun and even worse when you were a big guy who couldn’t play sports. Children could be so cruel sometimes, but Bran wouldn’t let his mother and father see him be hurt. He knew his mother couldn’t take seeing him in pain and would pull him out of school (he did like interacting with others, no matter how cruel the interaction was), while his father had taught him to be strong and unbreakable.
So it continued up until high school. Bran had a core of friends and had become a bit of a bully with his great strength and speed, not to mention his superior size that he held on most kids his age. He was also uncommonly smart, and could run schemes like you would expect from a Mafioso. But his life was to be changed again.
The University of Nevada - Las Vegas had an opening for a trainer, paying top dollar to whoever was good and could take the job. It would double the salary Liam was getting with U of M. It was a simple move in his eyes, but that wasn’t the case for Chloe. She had lived her whole life in the frozen wastes of Michigan and was stubborn about leaving. The loving family unit that had surrounded Bran all his life cracked as his parents separated. Always his father’s son, he went with him to Las Vegas, breaking his mother’s heart.
Life for Bran in Sin City was a shock. Not only was he no longer the top dog in his environment, but he was at the bottom of the chain again. However, in Las Vegas he found himself with an interesting new set of opportunities and scams to learn and run. He was still the strongest and the brightest person there and no one could take that from him, no matter how new he was. Not only that, but Vegas was the largest growing city in the country; he wasn’t the only fresh meat.
Quickly he surrounded himself with others, building a clique as a way of protection. Soon he was a ‘troubled boy’ traveling with the ‘wrong crowd,’ but what did he care for appearances? His father left him to his own devices for the most part, and he quickly fell in with that same crowd outside of school. At the age of 16 he was arrested after a fight with a man twice his age at a bar. The disturbing the peace charges were quickly dropped by the owner who didn’t want to deal with the fact that the boy had been at his bar, and the man who he had beaten within an inch of his life mysteriously got quiet and dropped the charges.
That’s when Mr. Lorenz approached Bran to work for him. To him, Bran could be a great asset to someone who wanted things done in the darker shadows of the city; he was young, he was smart and he was vicious. Years of indoctrination under the tutelage of his father had taught him to do anything to win; to conquer and all that repressed competitiveness gave him a bad streak that delighted Mr. Lorenz. Not only that, but Bran’s access to the UNLV sports facilities was a huge boon to his business. With all the money the two made on the down-low betting on UNLV sports, they could have made millions if they had been able to do it legitimately. They ran together off and on all through High School, and upon graduation, Bran started to work for Mr. Lorenz full time.
Today however, was going to be a long day. Kansas and Syracuse losing in the first round of the NCAA tournament had been a complete shock, and a lot of big losers were going to have to pay up. It was a good thing that Bran liked his work.
><><><
The ground shook beneath the feet of Lord Garlan’s knights as the charged after the villainous Balor dogs. Three hours has passed since Cadwgawn had led the despicable attack that had undone the Gwydion war leader’s elite skirmishers, and his rage was the battery that fueled his relentless pursuit. But light was fading quickly, along with the spirits of his men.
“Sir, they have time on their side. Darkness comes soon and we are chasing them across terrain that is unfamiliar to us,” one of his lieutenants shouted, riding up along side him.
“I will not allow your cowardice to deny justice for Sir Roland. Do you understand me Michael?” Garlan replied spurring his horse on ahead, though Count Michael Maetromious fought to keep pace, and to keep his wrath in check.
“You confuse cowardice and sanity! This is only going to bring death and destruction to you, to me and to the whole of our cause!”
“I have no need for cravens. You are a disgrace to your kith and house. Be gone from my sight.”
Count Maetromious sighed with disgust and fought the urge to show Garlan just how much of a craven he was, but it would do no good. Garlan was War Leader and to challenge him amongst his own elite knights was to beg for a quick death. Michael slid away from them and made for the camp where they’d left the rest of their host; they would need someone to lead them when the few and the proud were the dead and the gone.
Lord Garlan continued on, his vision clouded by the burning hatred he felt for Cadwgawn. Soon the bold Count’s dismissal had even melted away under the burning heat of his rage. But Michael’s dire warnings soon showed their credence and the temperature dropped and twilight stretched across the heavens. Garlan’s men grew uneasy but none dared give voice to their concerns after what had happened to Count Maetromious.
All seemed lost when the sound of single combat drew the attention of the riders. Soon they saw two figures on the field of battle. One was a fair, shining knight in the crimson and silver of House Fiona, fighting with a short lance. The other was Cadwgawn in his dark leather, fighting with a short sword and shield. Cadwgawn seemed to be pressing an advantage, surrounded by his skirmishers.
“Charge!” shouted Lord Garlan as his forces pounded down from the summit they sat on, striking for the Balor. Cadwgawn’s attention was drawn for half a moment, but that was all the Fiona needed. His lance leapt inside Cadwgawn’s guard, ripping across the veil of his helm, shattering his nose and knocking the helmet from his head to the trampled grass beneath the two warriors. Cadwgawn reeled and nearly lost his mount, but in a flash he had recovered and whipped a dagger end over end, its point finding its mark, sliding up under the Fiona’s gorget. In a moment, Cadwgawn had recovered and was off after his fleeing men as the Fiona tumbled from his mount.
“You’re mine now,” Garlan thought as he charged with the whole of his horse into the narrow valley after his startled prey, the noble Fiona all but forgotten in the light of Garlan’s insatiable lust for Cadwgawn’s blood. The Gwydion knights charged their lathered horses beyond the breaking point to give chase to Cadwgawn and his skirmishers. The valley soon dipped down low and all were surrounded by a heavy fog that made it difficult to see the rider beside you, let alone the force being chased. The charged onward however, blinded by the fog and castrated by their rage.
Then a mighty horn blew before the charging forces, stopping them dead in their tracks as the valley reverberated and shook from the great blast. In a moment the mask of the fog cleared by the will of the Prince Naesin whose magicks had created the illusion, and the valley shone with the light of a great night fire. Before the Gwydion knights stood three score mounted elite, and at the head of the formation was Cadwgawn, his face still a bloody, shattered mess from the earlier exchange with the Fiona. He smiled a queer grin and raised an iron cleaver into the air, bringing it down as a signal. In a moment, the greatest archers in the Unseelie host emerged from above, firing into the flanks of the pitiful Gwydion knights.
Chaos was the order of the evening as the Gwydion ranks fell apart. Those who still had the sense to turn and flee only ran into a hulking monstrous troll riding a massive beast. The creature exploded into the line of retreating knights with a gargantuan axe of cold iron, blood flying from his throat with each movement, with each strike.
It was a bloody massacre. The knights that remained were slaughtered by Cadwgawn and his elite, while those who fled were brought were brought to a similarly gruesome end at the hands of the nightmarish troll or were turned into pincushions by the archers from above. And then, only one foe remained on the field.
Lord Garlan charged wildly at Cadwgawn as the Balor elite formed a circle around the two mounted warriors. Garlan swung at Cadwgawn over and over again, each blow wilder and more filled with the Gwydion’s rage then the one before, each one deftly cast aside, at first. However, cold iron has the flaw of being brittle and easily broken, and eventually, despite Cadwgawn’s great skill, Garlan broke through the cleaver with a massive blow, shattering it. For a moment, a smile crossed the face of the deranged Gwydion, but it was to be short lived.
The monstrous troll charged quickly then into the circle, bringing his gruesome axe in to cut out the hind legs of Lord Garlan’s horse as Cadwgawn reached out, pulling the great halberd Tuathansbane out of the ether. In a moment it was arching up, slicing through his armored gauntlet and severing his sword hand from his arm with one might blow as the foolish Gwydion fell, pulled down by and pinned under his maimed steed.
“Lord Cadwgawn,” the grotesque troll said darkly, handing over Cadwgawn’s bloodied helmet. Garlan began to struggle, trying to pull himself free of his horse. That was stopped quickly enough though as the troll reached to his side, retrieving Cadwgawn’s dagger, whipping it down through Garlan’s wrist, pinning his good arm to the earth.
“Sir Alhard.” Cadwgawn responded, replacing his helmet, “Someday we must truly test ourselves against one another in battle,” as he covered his bloody smile with the veil of his helmet.
“What makes you think it would be any different?” Alhard responded as the two Balor dismounted. Cadwgawn wrenched the body of Garlan out from under the horse as Alhard ended the poor creature’s misery. Cadwgawn was moving in an instant, retrieving iron manacles from his saddle bag which quickly found their way to Garlan’s ankles and connected his good arm to the leg shackles, forcing him to sit up on his knees. Finally, he drew an iron dagger from his saddle bag and stabbed it through Garlan’s palm, pinning him again to the ground.
“Lord Garlan, you great fool,” Cadwgawn said softly, ripping the Gwydion’s helmet off and tossing it clear of his prone body, “There is a lesson you have finally learned, even if this important knowledge has come too late,” he lifted his chin, raising Garlan’s pain filled eyes to look at him and spit a bloody gob into his face.
“And that,” Alhard said as he took Cadwgawn’s place in front of Garlan, “Is that even the brightest knight in shining armor is rotten in the core of his soul.”
“It’s only a shame,” Cadwgawn continued as he took his place behind Garlan and Alhard raised his massive axe into the air, “That you will never have the opportunity to use that knowledge.”
For the second time that day, Cadwgawn bathed in the blood of House Gwydion as the head of Lord Garlan, War Leader of the Seelie Host tumbled to his feet.
><><><
Bran stared into his Amstel Light, sulking mildly at its lack of quality. It was a shitty little bar designed for the cosmopolitan tastes of some of Sin City’s visitors, which basically meant they had seventeen different types of martinis but very little along the lines of good beer. There were some positives to the place though; in trying to be trendy and upscale, they hadn’t installed video poker into the top of the bar itself, which was a huge boon with the way the displays messed with his eyes.
He dressed the part though, looking rather stylish in his wine colored Armani shirt and black slacks. The only thing out of place was the odd stick he “needed” to walk. He gazed across the room at the little shit that brought him out that evening. Marcus Wrigley was a punk Englishman who was always looking for action in the Premiership. He had lost big on Blackburn over the weekend and he had eluded Mr. Lorenz’s attempts to claim his winnings, but that would all end this evening.
Bran’s eyes slowly scanned the room for any problems. There were three ways out of the room; the front door, the kitchen and the bathrooms, though the third exit only led to a dead end. There were some uncharacteristically tough characters down the bar from him. They were bikers and they were having similar issues with the shitty beer. He’d have to watch them; just in case. As for the woman, well, she could probably take care of herself, though Bran didn’t think she was being paid to be his bodyguard by any stretch of the imagination. Everything seemed to be in just about perfect order. He moved to stand and make his inconspicuous move to Marcus’s booth…
…when they walked in. The one at the front was a big, tough looking Native American with close cropped hair. He looked young, confidant and strong, real salt of the earth sorta guy. Bran hated that type, especially when they got their nose stuck in business where it didn’t fucking belong… always fucking with the best laid plans of villains like himself. He would have to have an eye kept on him. But it was the two who accompanied him that really caught his eye. The first was an older boy (he could be called little else) dressed like a raver kid in a net shirt and black pipes. He was unquestionably too young to drink, which could cause an even bigger problem if there was a conflict with the kid and the bartender, which could make the mark get skiddish, but there was something unquestionably alluring just the same.
But the sight of the third person chased all other thoughts from his mind. Immediately he was overcome by the mysterious beauty of what he was sure was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. No man could help but to lose himself when gazing upon her, from her opalescent gold dusted skin and tumbling ebony locks to her glistening violet gaze, at once both aching with the radiance of youth and reflecting ageless wisdom beyond her years. She moved across the room with unparalleled grace and dignity on her spiked black heels, her supple curves undulating gently under a deep burgundy dress.
Bran tried to push all thoughts of the bewitching woman out of his mind, but his eyes were forcibly drawn to her, entranced by her every move, from the mildest gesture to the most deliberate glance. He devoured her with his eye and was filled with a deep longing to hold her; to have her; to possess her. “Keep your mind on the job!” he thought to himself even as he ordered her a drink and had it sent over to her. Everything seemed still and quiet as the waitress took the martini to her and pointed him out as the person who had ordered the drink for her. He lifted his drink to her with a smile and searched met her eyes with his. Her gaze moved to him, quiet appreciation clear as she lifted her glass to him.
Then all of a sudden all hell broke loose. Apparently Marcus Wesley had been watching her too and noticed the man who had bought her a drink. The worm took off, trampling over the whore who was on his arm, making for the entrance. Bran leapt up onto the bar, charging towards the doorway; staff in hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something starting between Injun Joe and the bikers (and the fact that the woman was regarding him as he moved towards him). In moments Bran had closed the gap between himself and the limey, coming upon him just as he was reaching for the door.
“CRACK.” Marcus Wesley yelped and let loose a horrific pained scream as the staff came over the top and shattered his wrist. A second, lighter blow found the outside of his knee, dropping the Englishman to the ground as he soiled himself in fear. One last blow to the back of the head knocked him out cold.
With work done (or at least postponed a little bit) Bran turned towards the other fight, just in time to see one of the bikers swing at the Indian’s head. In moments he had gotten a hold of the unfortunate sucker’s arm and had wrenched into it, ripping his shoulder out of place. He seemed to have things in hand with that one (and a few others for that matter) but one was turning to look at the woman and clearly any violence against her would not stand.
In an instant he was face to face with an ornery biker. Bran lifted his staff up and attempted to smash him in the mouth, only to be shocked as biker tried to bite through his trusty staff. His mind raced as he reared back instinctively, drawing his head back before driving it forward, shattering the biker’s nose.
“I must have hit him harder than I thought.” Bran considered as he wrenched the staff free, because clearly he was seeing things. He could have sworn the biker’s skin had turned an unnatural and grey as a razor sharp toothy grin covered its bloody face. He slid his leg back to brace himself against any further assault when he felt the presence of the woman behind him. The word Avalon shot through his head in a voice that seemed to be both his and not his as her hand reached out and touched his shoulder.
Then, everything went dark...
...and the world of his dreams enveloped him.
Cadwgawn charged down the silver path, Tuathansbane light in his hands, his dark leather armor caked in all manners of chimerical blood and ichor. Behind him lay a parted sea of vanquished nervosa, a parted sea that her ladyship Avalon Chaimbuel deftly moved through, following behind her sworn shield. Ahead of them stood a horrific tarantula who was bigger then ten men with a horrifying gleam in its eyes. Almost like clockwork a cantrip went off and the creature seemed to be repulsed, stumbling backwards. Cadwgawn quickly pressed his advantage and slid beneath the hulking beast, ripping into its abdomen, killing it with a horrifying scream that was drowned out only by the creature’s death rattle. With a great heave he pushed it out of the way as Avalon stepped up beside him.
They moved silently down the silver path, quickly approaching the entrance to the autumn world; where they would assuredly be separated in their search for bodies to inhabit. “Be safe,” Cadwgawn said quietly as they reached the gateway into the mortal world.
“Come find me when you get yourself settled in.” she replied, her violet orbs touched with sadness. They nodded once, and took a step through the gateway into a brave new world…
><><><
Bran awoke from his vision and Cadwgawn from the forgetting he had been in since that moment. He found himself standing before a group of redcaps, Tuathansbane in his hands. A brutal smile crossed his lips as the axe-head cleaved into the chest of the redcap in front of him and he was splattered with his chimerical blood.
Avalon stepped forward as her protocol brought all the angry blood in the room to heel. “All of you stop this immediately,” she commanded quietly. The Redcaps clumped together angrily as Maetremo cracked his neck and gave a long look to Cadwgawn. Naesin stepped forward and gave him a long look as well, a much less fierce, and much more excited look than the look the Gwydion had given him.
Cadwgawn bowed lightly to Naesin and fell slowly to a knee before Avalon. “It’s good to see you again milady,” he said softly before rising. His gaze moved to the squirming Englishman near the doorway, and then looked back to her, “Care to meet somewhere to talk?”
“Do you know T-Birds?” she asked as Mae gave Cadwgawn an even more meaningful long look which he potently ignored.
“Tropicana and Pecos?” he asked, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of bills, looking to the bartender who was watching their conversation.
“That’s the one.”
“Sure… I will meet you there in an hour,” he replied, giving Maetremo a dark smile as he moved to the bar and handed the bartender the wad, “Mr. Lorenz thanks you for your help and apologizes for the fools you’ve had to deal with tonight,” and with that he put his axe over his shoulder and dragged the limey off to pay his due.
><><><
Áliann squealed in a mixture of passion and pain, her every sound muffled by the heavy animal skins she found her face buried in. Cadwgawn thrusted deeply into her once more before reaching forward to dig his fingertips into the fiery Fiona’s shoulder, wrenching her up away from the musky furs. A moan crept into her throat, only to be cut off by his hand sliding across her collar, wrapping firmly around her neck. He pulled her tightly against him, her body shuddering against his.
She bared her neck for him, as much as his grasp would allow her to. His lips moved to her neck as her raven locks covered his face. Her scent filled his nostrils as his teeth met her soft skin. His free hand reached around and roughly took her breast in hand, bringing a high pitched yelp from her.
“Your Excellency!” a voice called reluctantly through the doorway, accompanied by the lightest of knocks.
Cadwgawn growled deeply and pushed away from her and stood off from the bed. Áliann whimpered reluctantly and crawled under the thick furs that lay across the bed. Another knock came, and another call, “Milord, it’s a matter of great importance,” as Cadwgawn grunted again, draping himself in a fur and tying it off with a rope.
“Speak quickly!” he replied, throwing open the door. Behind it stood his major domo, a Boggan by the name of Padrig, who could hardly stand under the rage that he saw in his master’s good eye as the puckered flesh that was his ruined left eye became flushed with that rage.
“Milord, the c-commons…” Padrig started, then swallowed hard in hopes of gaining some semblance of composure, “the commons are gathering to resist in the south.”
Cadwgawn clenched his fists tightly as a dark cloud seemed to pass over him. Áliann stirred slightly as though to move to his side, but as he turned his back on the major domo his rage seemed momentarily focused on her, stopping any thought of moving to his side. “Who is leading this uprising?”
Padrig coughed lightly and bit his lip, “It’s Shamus, the troll warlord… and allegedly he is in league with Maetromious,” he said as his master’s temperament darkened further, but he continued anyway, “He is said to have nearly six hundred men under him, harrying the townships and trying to draw others to his ‘noble cause.’”
An angry eye turned to meet the Boggan’s timid gaze. After a moment, he was able to break through his rage and speak, “I want my northern lieutenants here by sunset. Send birds to the southern towns, tell them to bolster their defenses and have my reserve forces here prepared to march south.”
“Yes sir.” The Boggan replied as he scurried away, closing the door behind him.
Cadwgawn remained silent for a long moment. Áliann stirred ever so slightly, watching her husband seethe before her. Slowly, she moved to stand, only to stop dead at the sound of a scream that could curdle milk. He reached for something, anything, and finding a pitcher of water, Cadwgawn grasped it and let fly, sending it crashing into a wall, just beside Áliann.
He moved to the window ledge and leaned there, surveying the lands as far as he could see. How could that snot nosed Gwydion get involved in his affairs again? And that bloody troll has been a thorn in his side ever since he took Lady Áliann Tine’s lands in the very beginning. Even after the war, when marriage had made him the ‘rightful’ lord of her lands, he condemned Cadwgawn’s methods as barbaric, vicious and dishonorable, fighting against him in what every way he possibly could. The nerve of him!
In his fury, he didn’t notice that Áliann had slowly approached him. After taking a long moment, she ducked under his arm and interposed herself between him and the window, a cool breeze making goose pimples rise from her creamy skin. His gaze fell upon her as her hands moved deliberately towards rope that held the fur fast against his skin. Cadwgawn pulled back slightly, but she was insistent, pulling apart knot he had tied. The back of his hand connected with her face, splitting her lip bloodily.
Áliann stood perfectly still for a moment as a light stream of blood dribbled to her chin. No fear could be found in her crystal blue eyes as she stood before the burning fire of his rage. Her small hands moved slowly to his chest before sliding down to his stomach. Another step and her lips, still wet with blood, gently touched his breast in the softest of kisses.
Cadwgawn reached forward, putting his right hand through her hair, closing his fist tightly, pulling her head back with a growl. She gasped softly, her eyes going wide as her mouth fell open before his rough, impassioned kiss. In a moment he broke the kiss and pushed her away from him, her body impacting against the edge of the window, knocking the wind out of her. In moments he was on top of her, pulling her up from the ground, pinning her to the wall, spreading her legs crudely before viciously thrusting into her.
When he had finished with Áliann, Cadwgawn left her buried under the covers on their bed and moved again to his window and gazed upon the lands; his lands. Soon he would be leaving this place, where his conquest had all began, to ride again into war. Soldier; General; Leader; this was his lot, not to sit comfortably; ruling, whether with an iron fist or a soft even-handed touch. His was the way of the warrior.
The next morning, he donned his armor one more time, going off into battle one more time. . .
><><><
Bran Cerwyn, or the man who was Bran Cerwyn, sat silently at a sleazy, dank biker bar on the outskirts of the city. The whiskey was a little watered down, but the locale was what he was really there for. He needed some time to think about the day he had had… and the bits of the past he could still remember.
Two people know who the hell I am at least, he thought to himself as he drained the last of his whiskey rocks, slamming the glass down to the table. Murray, your run of the mill muscle bound enforcer/bartender moved towards him.
“Bran… you alright boss?” he said about as quietly and lightly as burly bartender said anything.
“I’ve had… one hell of a night.” Cadwgawn replied, putting down a fifty on the bar, “Whiskey straight, make it a double… and leave the bottle.” Murray nodded lightly, doing as he was bid. Cadwgawn sloshed the strong-ish liquor around his mouth and slowly sunk into his own head again.
What has become of me, he thought, staring into the amber liquid. I was lord and general. I was a powerful man… a leader… what am I now? The thoughts continued to spin through his head; memories of conquest, memories of rulership; memories of what had been his home.
Those thoughts mingled with the memories of the mortal he now inhabited. What would it all mean one life to another? He downed the rest of his whiskey, pouring himself another glass, the memories of two lives intermingling in his brain. Given that, and his currently growing inebriation, things were quickly going down hill.
I am not some tool… I am a lord… a commander, he thought once again as the thought of his knighthood and his subservience to Avalon truly hit home. Yes, he knew what it meant to serve one greater than him, and the gods knew he had in the past and would again, but not as something so minor, so futile as a knight. He finished his drink in one mighty gulp, his rage rather rapidly getting the better of him.
“And what in the fuck is your deal, one eye?” a voice said from his right. Cadwgawn slowly looked up, the puckered flesh of his ruined left eye twitching lightly in both seemings. A rather large biker stood there; surly, drunk and looking for a fight. Cadwgawn refilled his whiskey, turning towards the oaf, sipping the drink very very lightly.
“Yeah, you little punk ass bitch, I’m talking to you!” he continued, slowly moving towards him. Two of his buddies moved up behind him, not so much in support, but as anchors to try and pull the oaf away. One of them, a guy named Charlie Sinclair, had been involved in some business with Mr. Lorenz, and he was pulling rather insistently at his friend’s arm.
Cadwgawn didn’t stand. He barely moved. Slowly he finished his drink, and very carefully put the empty glass down on the bar top. His head slowly cocked to the side, regarding the drunken fool who was heavily moving towards him. The words came to him slowly; he spoke them with a deadly edge.
“You do not want to do this, friend.” Cadwgawn said, rising to his feet. His gaze narrowed as he took a step forward, ready to strike if necessary.
“C’mon Bran, he’s drunk…. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s saying,” Charlie interposed, moving to put himself between Cadwgawn and his big friend. The drunken oaf took a heavy swing at poor Charlie, and then threw the dazed man to the ground. In an instant he had grabbed a bottle of bud, shattering it against the bar.
The drunk leaned forward, preparing to strike, “Make my day motherfucker.”
In an instant, the broken bottle was making a keen arc through the air, moving straight for Cadwgawn’s throat. Cadwgawn’s hands moved deftly as he ducked the attack. He took the drunk’s arm in his hands and twisted in just the right way, using the oafs own strength to flip him to the ground. With another twist he had shattered the arm.
“Okay.”
Cadwgawn turned the man over to his back as he screamed like a little girl who had stubbed her toe. He dropped to his knees, driving them into the whimpering sod’s shoulders, glaring down at him, the rage of the eternity that was his life overwhelming any sense of decency and restraint that remained in the body of Bran Cerwyn. His left hand wrapped around his throat as he started to methodically drive his shoulder into the poor slob’s face.
Silence filled the bar, all but the shallow whimpering of the fool who lay pinned below Cadwgawn. Silently, he stood up from the ground, picking up the remains of the beer bottle that had been intended for his throat. He laid the bottle lightly on the borderline unconscious drunk’s face, over his left eye. Then, he picked up a barstool by the legs.
“What was that you were saying about one eye?” Cadwgawn said quietly, a smug, sadistic smile crossing his lips. In an instant, the bar stool slammed into his face, shattering the bottle and whatever was left of the fools face. He let out one last, bitter shriek and curled up on the floor. Cadwgawn turned to see his friends cowering away from him, and Murray looking rather shocked behind the bar.
Cadwgawn shrugged, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a rather sizeable was of cash He peeled off about five hundred dollars, leaving it on the bar top, “I’ll take out the trash.” Grabbing him under the arms, Cadwgawn pulled him up mildly to his feet, dragging him off through the door, throwing him to the ground outside.
He stood silently for a moment, looking at the squirming, shaking fool. “I am a lord… I am a destroyer… a conqueror… a dominator… I have been… and I will be again.” He groaned in pain as a response, bringing a heavy boot to his ribs. Cadwgawn growled lightly and went to his car, driving off to consider the life in front of him.
Thoughts anyone?
New Text is in blue.
Scenes added: "A Return to the Battlefield" and "The Same Old New Beginings"
New Characters: Shamus MacTavish, Robert O'Toole (Padraig)
Characters elaborated on in new scene: Áliann Tine, Maetremo
The Fiona woman squealed in a mix of pleasure and self disgust as one of the trolls finished with her. He stepped away and left her broken and used against the table in the long hall. She curled up upon herself as sobbing wracked her body against the hard wood. Another of his trolls moved towards the poor woman, but the Lord had seen enough.
“No more.” Cadwgawn said, rising from the high seat of the hall. He descended down from his seat, moving towards the surly troll.
“This bitch is mine by right of conquest!” he roared as he grabbed the sidhe’s legs and pulled her onto her belly once more.
“I said that is enough.” Lord Cadwgawn responded, his voice not lifting. The boys’ blood was up, which was to be expected after so brutal and crushing a victory, so this sort of thing had to be dealt with delicately.
“Bugger off!” the Troll shouted as he dropped his cloth.
The lord had heard all he would on the matter though. Battle or no battle, right or no right, such disobedience could not be allowed. In an instant he held his dagger in hand, and before the troll could further damage the deposed lady, he found a new smile opening across his throat, his warm blood a rivulet cascading upon her and the table. It was her hall really (or rather it had been before their victory) and while he did in fact take great enjoyment at her degradation from puissant lady and ruler to little more then a common bar wench in her own hall, he had other uses for her.
She looked up at him from the table, smoothing what was left of her skirts over her abused body. Her look was one of mild relief at the end of her torture, but there was something else there, hidden behind a wall of civility and manners… something that even the most keen observer of the nuances of such a defense would not pick up on, but a look he was used to getting. Pity.
“Thank you, your lordship,” she said ever so quietly, her head bowed slightly in subservience, but her eyes held a quiet nobility and dignity as they regarded him sideways, attempting to ignore what she saw. “You fucking bitch,” he thought as he returned her cordial smile. She was naturally oblivious to his opinion of her; her feelings were clear, as she was seeing the horror of him for the first time. It was not the first time he saw that look… and it would not be the last.
><><><
Bran Cerwyn woke abruptly from what was usually a deep, untroubled sleep. He gently touched the rough skin around his blighted eye, feeling the light sheen of sweat that had collected over his skin. His limited vision quickly adjusted to the lack of light in his room; it was his after all. After a moment, he slid from the bed to his feet, looking around in the darkness. Odd dreams had woken him before, but never so vivid, so wild. He moved to the mini-fridge under his desk and retrieved a bottle of water. His mouth had gone bone dry, and the water tasted fresher to him then any he had ever drunk. He took a deep breath before returning the bottle to the refrigerator and slid back into bed.
Sleep came to him easily once more… and with sleep came another dream…
><><><
The Gwydion Commander sat astride his horse, a slight smile crossing his lips as he gazed down the hill. Before him fifty of his best men slid down the hill towards the meager line of enemy forces before him. Fifteen knights sat mounted, concealed beneath a line of trees, awaiting the Tuathan forces to take the field.
“At last,” Lord Garlan thought to himself as his men formed their own battles lines, “I will finally be done with these mercenaries that have been so problematic to our plans.” Thoughts of being able to finally push the flight of the Balor to the sea, and then, pushed against the anvil of the cool shore he would be the hammer to end their insurrection.
As the Gwydion skirmishers lined up at the bottom of the hill, their horses whinnied uneasily as though something were amiss. After a moment, the riders caught the scent as a soft fog, thick with the stench of death rolled across the field and the marauders slid out from under the line of trees. Their mounts stood strong against the stench and the riders did not waver against it. However in a moment the skirmishers had steadied their horses and the Knight Commander of their corps held his sword aloft in a salute to his lord before turning to address his enemy. His gaze lingered there for a moment before he thrust his sword forward, shouting “Charge!”
The Gwydion skirmishers plunged forward across the vast field and the fog grew thick for a moment before the eyes of Lord Garlan. He coughed mildly at the smell of death and brought his mount into line before looking back up. As the mist cleared, he noticed another figure moving forward of the Balor battle line. The man was of great stature, sitting high in his saddle, wearing a helmet of black leather with a veil of forged iron chain mail. For a moment his heart went cold.
“Cadwgawn.”
And in a moment, the figure had pulled the bow from his side and let fly a single quarrel. It arced through the air, finding a home in the chest of one of the skirmishers near the front. A blood curdling scream engulfed all other sounds, echoing in the air with pain and terror as the knight convulsed and tumbled from his horse, voice burning into the memory of Lord Garlan. It was a telling scream. A scream of iron.
In a moment more quarrels filled the air, launched from the Balor battle line. Now a cacophony of pain and terror filled the air and chaos reigned amongst the Gwydion battle lines. Horsemen fell about the field, a sickening spectacle of the cruelty of the House Balor. Another flight of quarrels rained down on the beleaguered chargers and their number was halved in screams of burning terror.
And still the remaining skirmishers charged on. Slowly, Cadwgawn lowered his longbow to the side of his mount, dropping it down to the ground. His hands moved just under his ears as he unhooked one side of the veil and pulled the helmet from his head, his long chestnut hair matted to his scalp by sweat.
His squire moved to take the helmet as Cadwgawn’s eyes searched for Lord Garlan. He found him at the crest of the hill, his face red with rage, a runner moving from him, away from the battle itself. “Blood for the blood gods,” he said softly handing his helmet over to his squire as the sound of another flight of quarrels. The sight of the collapsing forces and the renewed anguish of their battle drew Cadwgawn’s eyes up and he met eyes with the Knight Commander, the lone remaining foe as he charged in.
Cadwgawn spurred his mount to the front as his squire dismounted and picked up the discarded longbow. He slowly moved towards the charging rider at a deliberate pace, his eyes as focused on the ground below him as they were on his approaching foe. His eyes moved up as he reigned up his horse. His enemy was within thirty feet of him, yet he made no move for a weapon.
But then it happened; the knight commander’s horse reared up in pain, an iron caltrop imbedded in a hoof. A flight of arrows flew around Cadwgawn and eviscerated the maimed horse, its weight carrying it backwards, pinning the knight beneath its mass. Cadwgawn slid lithely from his horse, pulling a long iron dirk from his waist, moving over to the body of the knight, ripping off his helm.
“Blood for the blood gods,” he said once more as he grabbed the hair of the fallen knight. The Cold Iron dagger sliced through his throat like a hot knife through butter until it hit the bones of the neck. Cadwgawn replaced the dirk in his belt and put his hands at either side of his head, pulling up and twisting, ripping the head from his body.
As he hoisted the head high in the air, a cheer went up from his men. Blood cascaded from what was once the proud knight’s throat and christened himself in it. His eye moved again to Lord Garlan and he smiled before moving back to his horse and riding back to his men.
><><><
Bran awoke abruptly to the sound of an alarm clock encroaching upon him. The sweet silence descended on him a moment later as he roused himself from bed. He could still taste the victory of his dream, could still feel the warmth of the blood splattered across his face. His chest swelled with pride at the thought of the victory as he moved to put on the days clothes and he took up the staff that he carried with him at work. It was a queer thing for the modern world maybe, but he always felt better with it in hand, especially when he needed to see to the boss’s business.
It was going to be a busy day. Syracuse and Kansas had both been upset out of the first round of the NCAA tournament and a lot of people had them going pretty far. Bran had been working for loan sharks in the city since his senior year in high school. His life had never been an easy one.
Bran was born to Chloe and Liam Cerwyn of Ann Arbor, MI in the fall of 1985. Premature and born with an initially undiagnosed case of the measles, he was maimed, his left eye blinded before the grievous mistake could be corrected. His parents cared horribly for him and were greatly overprotective. Chloe was a school teacher, but she left her job with the Board of Ed. to home-school young Bran while Liam brought home money as a trainer for the Michigan Wolverines football team.
Bran could never go out for sports like other kids would because no doctor would clear him for sports being completely blind in one eye. However, Liam saw the natural strength in his son and personally saw to training him before and after work. He even helped him while he was working for the one season Bran was a waterboy for the team. He hoped that someday he could be an Olympic lifter, or, if they were ever able to recover his site, a wrestler or football player.
But Chloe was overprotective of her boy. She kept him home schooled until the age of eight, putting him into school to both acclimate him to people his own age and as much to keep him busy once his father was promoted to head trainer for the entire Michigan sports program. It didn’t go over well, however. Being the new kid was never fun and even worse when you were a big guy who couldn’t play sports. Children could be so cruel sometimes, but Bran wouldn’t let his mother and father see him be hurt. He knew his mother couldn’t take seeing him in pain and would pull him out of school (he did like interacting with others, no matter how cruel the interaction was), while his father had taught him to be strong and unbreakable.
So it continued up until high school. Bran had a core of friends and had become a bit of a bully with his great strength and speed, not to mention his superior size that he held on most kids his age. He was also uncommonly smart, and could run schemes like you would expect from a Mafioso. But his life was to be changed again.
The University of Nevada - Las Vegas had an opening for a trainer, paying top dollar to whoever was good and could take the job. It would double the salary Liam was getting with U of M. It was a simple move in his eyes, but that wasn’t the case for Chloe. She had lived her whole life in the frozen wastes of Michigan and was stubborn about leaving. The loving family unit that had surrounded Bran all his life cracked as his parents separated. Always his father’s son, he went with him to Las Vegas, breaking his mother’s heart.
Life for Bran in Sin City was a shock. Not only was he no longer the top dog in his environment, but he was at the bottom of the chain again. However, in Las Vegas he found himself with an interesting new set of opportunities and scams to learn and run. He was still the strongest and the brightest person there and no one could take that from him, no matter how new he was. Not only that, but Vegas was the largest growing city in the country; he wasn’t the only fresh meat.
Quickly he surrounded himself with others, building a clique as a way of protection. Soon he was a ‘troubled boy’ traveling with the ‘wrong crowd,’ but what did he care for appearances? His father left him to his own devices for the most part, and he quickly fell in with that same crowd outside of school. At the age of 16 he was arrested after a fight with a man twice his age at a bar. The disturbing the peace charges were quickly dropped by the owner who didn’t want to deal with the fact that the boy had been at his bar, and the man who he had beaten within an inch of his life mysteriously got quiet and dropped the charges.
That’s when Mr. Lorenz approached Bran to work for him. To him, Bran could be a great asset to someone who wanted things done in the darker shadows of the city; he was young, he was smart and he was vicious. Years of indoctrination under the tutelage of his father had taught him to do anything to win; to conquer and all that repressed competitiveness gave him a bad streak that delighted Mr. Lorenz. Not only that, but Bran’s access to the UNLV sports facilities was a huge boon to his business. With all the money the two made on the down-low betting on UNLV sports, they could have made millions if they had been able to do it legitimately. They ran together off and on all through High School, and upon graduation, Bran started to work for Mr. Lorenz full time.
Today however, was going to be a long day. Kansas and Syracuse losing in the first round of the NCAA tournament had been a complete shock, and a lot of big losers were going to have to pay up. It was a good thing that Bran liked his work.
><><><
The ground shook beneath the feet of Lord Garlan’s knights as the charged after the villainous Balor dogs. Three hours has passed since Cadwgawn had led the despicable attack that had undone the Gwydion war leader’s elite skirmishers, and his rage was the battery that fueled his relentless pursuit. But light was fading quickly, along with the spirits of his men.
“Sir, they have time on their side. Darkness comes soon and we are chasing them across terrain that is unfamiliar to us,” one of his lieutenants shouted, riding up along side him.
“I will not allow your cowardice to deny justice for Sir Roland. Do you understand me Michael?” Garlan replied spurring his horse on ahead, though Count Michael Maetromious fought to keep pace, and to keep his wrath in check.
“You confuse cowardice and sanity! This is only going to bring death and destruction to you, to me and to the whole of our cause!”
“I have no need for cravens. You are a disgrace to your kith and house. Be gone from my sight.”
Count Maetromious sighed with disgust and fought the urge to show Garlan just how much of a craven he was, but it would do no good. Garlan was War Leader and to challenge him amongst his own elite knights was to beg for a quick death. Michael slid away from them and made for the camp where they’d left the rest of their host; they would need someone to lead them when the few and the proud were the dead and the gone.
Lord Garlan continued on, his vision clouded by the burning hatred he felt for Cadwgawn. Soon the bold Count’s dismissal had even melted away under the burning heat of his rage. But Michael’s dire warnings soon showed their credence and the temperature dropped and twilight stretched across the heavens. Garlan’s men grew uneasy but none dared give voice to their concerns after what had happened to Count Maetromious.
All seemed lost when the sound of single combat drew the attention of the riders. Soon they saw two figures on the field of battle. One was a fair, shining knight in the crimson and silver of House Fiona, fighting with a short lance. The other was Cadwgawn in his dark leather, fighting with a short sword and shield. Cadwgawn seemed to be pressing an advantage, surrounded by his skirmishers.
“Charge!” shouted Lord Garlan as his forces pounded down from the summit they sat on, striking for the Balor. Cadwgawn’s attention was drawn for half a moment, but that was all the Fiona needed. His lance leapt inside Cadwgawn’s guard, ripping across the veil of his helm, shattering his nose and knocking the helmet from his head to the trampled grass beneath the two warriors. Cadwgawn reeled and nearly lost his mount, but in a flash he had recovered and whipped a dagger end over end, its point finding its mark, sliding up under the Fiona’s gorget. In a moment, Cadwgawn had recovered and was off after his fleeing men as the Fiona tumbled from his mount.
“You’re mine now,” Garlan thought as he charged with the whole of his horse into the narrow valley after his startled prey, the noble Fiona all but forgotten in the light of Garlan’s insatiable lust for Cadwgawn’s blood. The Gwydion knights charged their lathered horses beyond the breaking point to give chase to Cadwgawn and his skirmishers. The valley soon dipped down low and all were surrounded by a heavy fog that made it difficult to see the rider beside you, let alone the force being chased. The charged onward however, blinded by the fog and castrated by their rage.
Then a mighty horn blew before the charging forces, stopping them dead in their tracks as the valley reverberated and shook from the great blast. In a moment the mask of the fog cleared by the will of the Prince Naesin whose magicks had created the illusion, and the valley shone with the light of a great night fire. Before the Gwydion knights stood three score mounted elite, and at the head of the formation was Cadwgawn, his face still a bloody, shattered mess from the earlier exchange with the Fiona. He smiled a queer grin and raised an iron cleaver into the air, bringing it down as a signal. In a moment, the greatest archers in the Unseelie host emerged from above, firing into the flanks of the pitiful Gwydion knights.
Chaos was the order of the evening as the Gwydion ranks fell apart. Those who still had the sense to turn and flee only ran into a hulking monstrous troll riding a massive beast. The creature exploded into the line of retreating knights with a gargantuan axe of cold iron, blood flying from his throat with each movement, with each strike.
It was a bloody massacre. The knights that remained were slaughtered by Cadwgawn and his elite, while those who fled were brought were brought to a similarly gruesome end at the hands of the nightmarish troll or were turned into pincushions by the archers from above. And then, only one foe remained on the field.
Lord Garlan charged wildly at Cadwgawn as the Balor elite formed a circle around the two mounted warriors. Garlan swung at Cadwgawn over and over again, each blow wilder and more filled with the Gwydion’s rage then the one before, each one deftly cast aside, at first. However, cold iron has the flaw of being brittle and easily broken, and eventually, despite Cadwgawn’s great skill, Garlan broke through the cleaver with a massive blow, shattering it. For a moment, a smile crossed the face of the deranged Gwydion, but it was to be short lived.
The monstrous troll charged quickly then into the circle, bringing his gruesome axe in to cut out the hind legs of Lord Garlan’s horse as Cadwgawn reached out, pulling the great halberd Tuathansbane out of the ether. In a moment it was arching up, slicing through his armored gauntlet and severing his sword hand from his arm with one might blow as the foolish Gwydion fell, pulled down by and pinned under his maimed steed.
“Lord Cadwgawn,” the grotesque troll said darkly, handing over Cadwgawn’s bloodied helmet. Garlan began to struggle, trying to pull himself free of his horse. That was stopped quickly enough though as the troll reached to his side, retrieving Cadwgawn’s dagger, whipping it down through Garlan’s wrist, pinning his good arm to the earth.
“Sir Alhard.” Cadwgawn responded, replacing his helmet, “Someday we must truly test ourselves against one another in battle,” as he covered his bloody smile with the veil of his helmet.
“What makes you think it would be any different?” Alhard responded as the two Balor dismounted. Cadwgawn wrenched the body of Garlan out from under the horse as Alhard ended the poor creature’s misery. Cadwgawn was moving in an instant, retrieving iron manacles from his saddle bag which quickly found their way to Garlan’s ankles and connected his good arm to the leg shackles, forcing him to sit up on his knees. Finally, he drew an iron dagger from his saddle bag and stabbed it through Garlan’s palm, pinning him again to the ground.
“Lord Garlan, you great fool,” Cadwgawn said softly, ripping the Gwydion’s helmet off and tossing it clear of his prone body, “There is a lesson you have finally learned, even if this important knowledge has come too late,” he lifted his chin, raising Garlan’s pain filled eyes to look at him and spit a bloody gob into his face.
“And that,” Alhard said as he took Cadwgawn’s place in front of Garlan, “Is that even the brightest knight in shining armor is rotten in the core of his soul.”
“It’s only a shame,” Cadwgawn continued as he took his place behind Garlan and Alhard raised his massive axe into the air, “That you will never have the opportunity to use that knowledge.”
For the second time that day, Cadwgawn bathed in the blood of House Gwydion as the head of Lord Garlan, War Leader of the Seelie Host tumbled to his feet.
><><><
Bran stared into his Amstel Light, sulking mildly at its lack of quality. It was a shitty little bar designed for the cosmopolitan tastes of some of Sin City’s visitors, which basically meant they had seventeen different types of martinis but very little along the lines of good beer. There were some positives to the place though; in trying to be trendy and upscale, they hadn’t installed video poker into the top of the bar itself, which was a huge boon with the way the displays messed with his eyes.
He dressed the part though, looking rather stylish in his wine colored Armani shirt and black slacks. The only thing out of place was the odd stick he “needed” to walk. He gazed across the room at the little shit that brought him out that evening. Marcus Wrigley was a punk Englishman who was always looking for action in the Premiership. He had lost big on Blackburn over the weekend and he had eluded Mr. Lorenz’s attempts to claim his winnings, but that would all end this evening.
Bran’s eyes slowly scanned the room for any problems. There were three ways out of the room; the front door, the kitchen and the bathrooms, though the third exit only led to a dead end. There were some uncharacteristically tough characters down the bar from him. They were bikers and they were having similar issues with the shitty beer. He’d have to watch them; just in case. As for the woman, well, she could probably take care of herself, though Bran didn’t think she was being paid to be his bodyguard by any stretch of the imagination. Everything seemed to be in just about perfect order. He moved to stand and make his inconspicuous move to Marcus’s booth…
…when they walked in. The one at the front was a big, tough looking Native American with close cropped hair. He looked young, confidant and strong, real salt of the earth sorta guy. Bran hated that type, especially when they got their nose stuck in business where it didn’t fucking belong… always fucking with the best laid plans of villains like himself. He would have to have an eye kept on him. But it was the two who accompanied him that really caught his eye. The first was an older boy (he could be called little else) dressed like a raver kid in a net shirt and black pipes. He was unquestionably too young to drink, which could cause an even bigger problem if there was a conflict with the kid and the bartender, which could make the mark get skiddish, but there was something unquestionably alluring just the same.
But the sight of the third person chased all other thoughts from his mind. Immediately he was overcome by the mysterious beauty of what he was sure was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. No man could help but to lose himself when gazing upon her, from her opalescent gold dusted skin and tumbling ebony locks to her glistening violet gaze, at once both aching with the radiance of youth and reflecting ageless wisdom beyond her years. She moved across the room with unparalleled grace and dignity on her spiked black heels, her supple curves undulating gently under a deep burgundy dress.
Bran tried to push all thoughts of the bewitching woman out of his mind, but his eyes were forcibly drawn to her, entranced by her every move, from the mildest gesture to the most deliberate glance. He devoured her with his eye and was filled with a deep longing to hold her; to have her; to possess her. “Keep your mind on the job!” he thought to himself even as he ordered her a drink and had it sent over to her. Everything seemed still and quiet as the waitress took the martini to her and pointed him out as the person who had ordered the drink for her. He lifted his drink to her with a smile and searched met her eyes with his. Her gaze moved to him, quiet appreciation clear as she lifted her glass to him.
Then all of a sudden all hell broke loose. Apparently Marcus Wesley had been watching her too and noticed the man who had bought her a drink. The worm took off, trampling over the whore who was on his arm, making for the entrance. Bran leapt up onto the bar, charging towards the doorway; staff in hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something starting between Injun Joe and the bikers (and the fact that the woman was regarding him as he moved towards him). In moments Bran had closed the gap between himself and the limey, coming upon him just as he was reaching for the door.
“CRACK.” Marcus Wesley yelped and let loose a horrific pained scream as the staff came over the top and shattered his wrist. A second, lighter blow found the outside of his knee, dropping the Englishman to the ground as he soiled himself in fear. One last blow to the back of the head knocked him out cold.
With work done (or at least postponed a little bit) Bran turned towards the other fight, just in time to see one of the bikers swing at the Indian’s head. In moments he had gotten a hold of the unfortunate sucker’s arm and had wrenched into it, ripping his shoulder out of place. He seemed to have things in hand with that one (and a few others for that matter) but one was turning to look at the woman and clearly any violence against her would not stand.
In an instant he was face to face with an ornery biker. Bran lifted his staff up and attempted to smash him in the mouth, only to be shocked as biker tried to bite through his trusty staff. His mind raced as he reared back instinctively, drawing his head back before driving it forward, shattering the biker’s nose.
“I must have hit him harder than I thought.” Bran considered as he wrenched the staff free, because clearly he was seeing things. He could have sworn the biker’s skin had turned an unnatural and grey as a razor sharp toothy grin covered its bloody face. He slid his leg back to brace himself against any further assault when he felt the presence of the woman behind him. The word Avalon shot through his head in a voice that seemed to be both his and not his as her hand reached out and touched his shoulder.
Then, everything went dark...
...and the world of his dreams enveloped him.
Cadwgawn charged down the silver path, Tuathansbane light in his hands, his dark leather armor caked in all manners of chimerical blood and ichor. Behind him lay a parted sea of vanquished nervosa, a parted sea that her ladyship Avalon Chaimbuel deftly moved through, following behind her sworn shield. Ahead of them stood a horrific tarantula who was bigger then ten men with a horrifying gleam in its eyes. Almost like clockwork a cantrip went off and the creature seemed to be repulsed, stumbling backwards. Cadwgawn quickly pressed his advantage and slid beneath the hulking beast, ripping into its abdomen, killing it with a horrifying scream that was drowned out only by the creature’s death rattle. With a great heave he pushed it out of the way as Avalon stepped up beside him.
They moved silently down the silver path, quickly approaching the entrance to the autumn world; where they would assuredly be separated in their search for bodies to inhabit. “Be safe,” Cadwgawn said quietly as they reached the gateway into the mortal world.
“Come find me when you get yourself settled in.” she replied, her violet orbs touched with sadness. They nodded once, and took a step through the gateway into a brave new world…
><><><
Bran awoke from his vision and Cadwgawn from the forgetting he had been in since that moment. He found himself standing before a group of redcaps, Tuathansbane in his hands. A brutal smile crossed his lips as the axe-head cleaved into the chest of the redcap in front of him and he was splattered with his chimerical blood.
Avalon stepped forward as her protocol brought all the angry blood in the room to heel. “All of you stop this immediately,” she commanded quietly. The Redcaps clumped together angrily as Maetremo cracked his neck and gave a long look to Cadwgawn. Naesin stepped forward and gave him a long look as well, a much less fierce, and much more excited look than the look the Gwydion had given him.
Cadwgawn bowed lightly to Naesin and fell slowly to a knee before Avalon. “It’s good to see you again milady,” he said softly before rising. His gaze moved to the squirming Englishman near the doorway, and then looked back to her, “Care to meet somewhere to talk?”
“Do you know T-Birds?” she asked as Mae gave Cadwgawn an even more meaningful long look which he potently ignored.
“Tropicana and Pecos?” he asked, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of bills, looking to the bartender who was watching their conversation.
“That’s the one.”
“Sure… I will meet you there in an hour,” he replied, giving Maetremo a dark smile as he moved to the bar and handed the bartender the wad, “Mr. Lorenz thanks you for your help and apologizes for the fools you’ve had to deal with tonight,” and with that he put his axe over his shoulder and dragged the limey off to pay his due.
><><><
Áliann squealed in a mixture of passion and pain, her every sound muffled by the heavy animal skins she found her face buried in. Cadwgawn thrusted deeply into her once more before reaching forward to dig his fingertips into the fiery Fiona’s shoulder, wrenching her up away from the musky furs. A moan crept into her throat, only to be cut off by his hand sliding across her collar, wrapping firmly around her neck. He pulled her tightly against him, her body shuddering against his.
She bared her neck for him, as much as his grasp would allow her to. His lips moved to her neck as her raven locks covered his face. Her scent filled his nostrils as his teeth met her soft skin. His free hand reached around and roughly took her breast in hand, bringing a high pitched yelp from her.
“Your Excellency!” a voice called reluctantly through the doorway, accompanied by the lightest of knocks.
Cadwgawn growled deeply and pushed away from her and stood off from the bed. Áliann whimpered reluctantly and crawled under the thick furs that lay across the bed. Another knock came, and another call, “Milord, it’s a matter of great importance,” as Cadwgawn grunted again, draping himself in a fur and tying it off with a rope.
“Speak quickly!” he replied, throwing open the door. Behind it stood his major domo, a Boggan by the name of Padrig, who could hardly stand under the rage that he saw in his master’s good eye as the puckered flesh that was his ruined left eye became flushed with that rage.
“Milord, the c-commons…” Padrig started, then swallowed hard in hopes of gaining some semblance of composure, “the commons are gathering to resist in the south.”
Cadwgawn clenched his fists tightly as a dark cloud seemed to pass over him. Áliann stirred slightly as though to move to his side, but as he turned his back on the major domo his rage seemed momentarily focused on her, stopping any thought of moving to his side. “Who is leading this uprising?”
Padrig coughed lightly and bit his lip, “It’s Shamus, the troll warlord… and allegedly he is in league with Maetromious,” he said as his master’s temperament darkened further, but he continued anyway, “He is said to have nearly six hundred men under him, harrying the townships and trying to draw others to his ‘noble cause.’”
An angry eye turned to meet the Boggan’s timid gaze. After a moment, he was able to break through his rage and speak, “I want my northern lieutenants here by sunset. Send birds to the southern towns, tell them to bolster their defenses and have my reserve forces here prepared to march south.”
“Yes sir.” The Boggan replied as he scurried away, closing the door behind him.
Cadwgawn remained silent for a long moment. Áliann stirred ever so slightly, watching her husband seethe before her. Slowly, she moved to stand, only to stop dead at the sound of a scream that could curdle milk. He reached for something, anything, and finding a pitcher of water, Cadwgawn grasped it and let fly, sending it crashing into a wall, just beside Áliann.
He moved to the window ledge and leaned there, surveying the lands as far as he could see. How could that snot nosed Gwydion get involved in his affairs again? And that bloody troll has been a thorn in his side ever since he took Lady Áliann Tine’s lands in the very beginning. Even after the war, when marriage had made him the ‘rightful’ lord of her lands, he condemned Cadwgawn’s methods as barbaric, vicious and dishonorable, fighting against him in what every way he possibly could. The nerve of him!
In his fury, he didn’t notice that Áliann had slowly approached him. After taking a long moment, she ducked under his arm and interposed herself between him and the window, a cool breeze making goose pimples rise from her creamy skin. His gaze fell upon her as her hands moved deliberately towards rope that held the fur fast against his skin. Cadwgawn pulled back slightly, but she was insistent, pulling apart knot he had tied. The back of his hand connected with her face, splitting her lip bloodily.
Áliann stood perfectly still for a moment as a light stream of blood dribbled to her chin. No fear could be found in her crystal blue eyes as she stood before the burning fire of his rage. Her small hands moved slowly to his chest before sliding down to his stomach. Another step and her lips, still wet with blood, gently touched his breast in the softest of kisses.
Cadwgawn reached forward, putting his right hand through her hair, closing his fist tightly, pulling her head back with a growl. She gasped softly, her eyes going wide as her mouth fell open before his rough, impassioned kiss. In a moment he broke the kiss and pushed her away from him, her body impacting against the edge of the window, knocking the wind out of her. In moments he was on top of her, pulling her up from the ground, pinning her to the wall, spreading her legs crudely before viciously thrusting into her.
When he had finished with Áliann, Cadwgawn left her buried under the covers on their bed and moved again to his window and gazed upon the lands; his lands. Soon he would be leaving this place, where his conquest had all began, to ride again into war. Soldier; General; Leader; this was his lot, not to sit comfortably; ruling, whether with an iron fist or a soft even-handed touch. His was the way of the warrior.
The next morning, he donned his armor one more time, going off into battle one more time. . .
><><><
Bran Cerwyn, or the man who was Bran Cerwyn, sat silently at a sleazy, dank biker bar on the outskirts of the city. The whiskey was a little watered down, but the locale was what he was really there for. He needed some time to think about the day he had had… and the bits of the past he could still remember.
Two people know who the hell I am at least, he thought to himself as he drained the last of his whiskey rocks, slamming the glass down to the table. Murray, your run of the mill muscle bound enforcer/bartender moved towards him.
“Bran… you alright boss?” he said about as quietly and lightly as burly bartender said anything.
“I’ve had… one hell of a night.” Cadwgawn replied, putting down a fifty on the bar, “Whiskey straight, make it a double… and leave the bottle.” Murray nodded lightly, doing as he was bid. Cadwgawn sloshed the strong-ish liquor around his mouth and slowly sunk into his own head again.
What has become of me, he thought, staring into the amber liquid. I was lord and general. I was a powerful man… a leader… what am I now? The thoughts continued to spin through his head; memories of conquest, memories of rulership; memories of what had been his home.
Those thoughts mingled with the memories of the mortal he now inhabited. What would it all mean one life to another? He downed the rest of his whiskey, pouring himself another glass, the memories of two lives intermingling in his brain. Given that, and his currently growing inebriation, things were quickly going down hill.
I am not some tool… I am a lord… a commander, he thought once again as the thought of his knighthood and his subservience to Avalon truly hit home. Yes, he knew what it meant to serve one greater than him, and the gods knew he had in the past and would again, but not as something so minor, so futile as a knight. He finished his drink in one mighty gulp, his rage rather rapidly getting the better of him.
“And what in the fuck is your deal, one eye?” a voice said from his right. Cadwgawn slowly looked up, the puckered flesh of his ruined left eye twitching lightly in both seemings. A rather large biker stood there; surly, drunk and looking for a fight. Cadwgawn refilled his whiskey, turning towards the oaf, sipping the drink very very lightly.
“Yeah, you little punk ass bitch, I’m talking to you!” he continued, slowly moving towards him. Two of his buddies moved up behind him, not so much in support, but as anchors to try and pull the oaf away. One of them, a guy named Charlie Sinclair, had been involved in some business with Mr. Lorenz, and he was pulling rather insistently at his friend’s arm.
Cadwgawn didn’t stand. He barely moved. Slowly he finished his drink, and very carefully put the empty glass down on the bar top. His head slowly cocked to the side, regarding the drunken fool who was heavily moving towards him. The words came to him slowly; he spoke them with a deadly edge.
“You do not want to do this, friend.” Cadwgawn said, rising to his feet. His gaze narrowed as he took a step forward, ready to strike if necessary.
“C’mon Bran, he’s drunk…. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s saying,” Charlie interposed, moving to put himself between Cadwgawn and his big friend. The drunken oaf took a heavy swing at poor Charlie, and then threw the dazed man to the ground. In an instant he had grabbed a bottle of bud, shattering it against the bar.
The drunk leaned forward, preparing to strike, “Make my day motherfucker.”
In an instant, the broken bottle was making a keen arc through the air, moving straight for Cadwgawn’s throat. Cadwgawn’s hands moved deftly as he ducked the attack. He took the drunk’s arm in his hands and twisted in just the right way, using the oafs own strength to flip him to the ground. With another twist he had shattered the arm.
“Okay.”
Cadwgawn turned the man over to his back as he screamed like a little girl who had stubbed her toe. He dropped to his knees, driving them into the whimpering sod’s shoulders, glaring down at him, the rage of the eternity that was his life overwhelming any sense of decency and restraint that remained in the body of Bran Cerwyn. His left hand wrapped around his throat as he started to methodically drive his shoulder into the poor slob’s face.
Silence filled the bar, all but the shallow whimpering of the fool who lay pinned below Cadwgawn. Silently, he stood up from the ground, picking up the remains of the beer bottle that had been intended for his throat. He laid the bottle lightly on the borderline unconscious drunk’s face, over his left eye. Then, he picked up a barstool by the legs.
“What was that you were saying about one eye?” Cadwgawn said quietly, a smug, sadistic smile crossing his lips. In an instant, the bar stool slammed into his face, shattering the bottle and whatever was left of the fools face. He let out one last, bitter shriek and curled up on the floor. Cadwgawn turned to see his friends cowering away from him, and Murray looking rather shocked behind the bar.
Cadwgawn shrugged, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a rather sizeable was of cash He peeled off about five hundred dollars, leaving it on the bar top, “I’ll take out the trash.” Grabbing him under the arms, Cadwgawn pulled him up mildly to his feet, dragging him off through the door, throwing him to the ground outside.
He stood silently for a moment, looking at the squirming, shaking fool. “I am a lord… I am a destroyer… a conqueror… a dominator… I have been… and I will be again.” He groaned in pain as a response, bringing a heavy boot to his ribs. Cadwgawn growled lightly and went to his car, driving off to consider the life in front of him.
Thoughts anyone?