Member Bio

Oh, lad sit down, have a pint we have all damn night to patrol.  What was I telling you, my squeaky new partner?  Right… ancient history. So when Moylan told me that I was to be the fish bone that did for his most Highness Cormac mac Airt I was more than pleased.  Oh now don’t look so shocked.  In my day kings were nothing so precious that we weren’t willing to do away with the worst of them.  I know, I know, these days everyone says what a great king he was, pride of all Erinn.  Well let me tell you, he was a smug, prideful proseletyzing prince if ever there was one.  There you go looking scandalized again.  Never was a man or woman to wear a crown that wasn’t some kind of bastard or other.  Not so bad as his father, but he scoffed at our gods.  Fin and Barinthus, Horned Cernunnos, Morrigan and her other faces, lusty Epona.  Though he knew their power, though they had walked among us and taught us to love life and knowledge and shape the world with magic and steel.  He spurned them for his Southron ‘One God’ that was actually three gods who only taught love of self flagellation.  Made my head throb.

So when Moylan asked me to defend the honor of Mebdh and Sirona and Vindonnus and our whole pantheon I grinned and agreed and used my silvered tongue to win myself a dinner date with the royal high gobber. Yes silver tongue you smirking pup.  I don’t solve everything with sword and sap.  You drinking that brown or winking at it? Where was I… Right.

It was to be fish for supper.  As I was to know in the course of things the Southron Cross worshippers used the fish as a symbol to keep the Romans off them. Clever that.  I didn’t know that when I took a few of Lyrr’s words and wove them into the salmon. That Cormac death would be burbly I knew the irony was something I got to appreciate later.  I wouldn’t get the irony for years. The burbling I understood before desert.

Unfortunately Moylan had understimated Cormac.  mac Airt had started what was to become a fine irish catholic tradition, over breeding.  They couldn’t prove I’d done for hisself, but they knew.  And there was enough of them that they made life in the Tuath… challenging.  My blade arm got quite the working as folk of Cormac’s would call down the challenge at slightest provocation.  Eventually I got tired of all my fine tunics turning red so I traveled.

I travelled long and far.  And the gods I’d defended never abandoned me.  My eyes stayed bright and my arms strong.  I fought with mongols and monks. Miles of Romans. Arrogant Bastards. Samauri and Bushmen. Tribesman on the continent that some Nord, and then some Italian would later ‘discover’.  I learned the bow, and Katana, the atlatl and the spear.  I learned to run like a dear and stalk like a Puma.  I had a grand time and my gods kept me ever young and fit.

Eventually Patrick and the Romans did for my druids, then my gods really took an interest. When I ended up on the wrong side at Crecy the proprietary bastards completely unstuck me from the world and set me wandering planes that were just stories on our world.  I’ve walked the planes with 6 varieties of elves, 3 phenotypes of dragons and more kinds of greenskins than are worth counting and I am tired of ramblin.

Figure I’ll settle in this city a while.  Lead the quiet life of a city guardsman. Walk patrol, take my bribes, drink my ale, eat my bacon, occasionally break up a brawl (or cause one) with my comrades in blue and grey.  Maybe my gods will tire of me and let me die. If not at least I can live a life of leisure. And donuts.

So the moral of the story is don’t kill kings with fishbones.  Not even if they deserve it, recruit.  Otherwise you’ll end up like me.  I see that look in your eye.  Your right.  Not such a bad deal at all eh recruit?  Fine… fine.  Grab that horsehoe, we’ll hunt us up a king while I teach you a Prayer to Epona…