Where the Brave may Live Forever.

[Warre]

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“Daniel, Daniel, Daniel meboy!” that sentence run through the forested hills of old Warre, the hills of Warestyr, the land of the Warreics. Through the coast lands of Kilkerry, the words rang out- a call which might well have knocked snow from the mountain tops themselves.

And so he stopped, the dark haired lad who's name was Daniel. Daniel Mac Aodha Ui Kilkerry, son of Katha Mac Aodha Ui Tyrell, though the boy was illegitimate, so carried not his mother's family name, only the clann name and the place of his birth and sproutin'. He had never known his father, but had had all the fathers he could ask for- men of legend in his story books, the uncles, cousins and godfathers all about; they all spoiled him and inspired him, even if he had no man to call 'da', even if his childhood was one to rival Setanta himself, that Hound of Chullain's fighting nothing compared to Daniel Mac Aodha.

Yet he was no warrior, not in the traditional sense. His profession lay in his hands and his feet and his mouth and his mind, he was his axe hammering for long hours to drop ancient oaks, he was his own weaver's needle carving a tapestry from life. As his family, his friends, his kinsmen, his countrymen- they called out a mournful set of words hidden behind silence. It rang clearer than a zealot's bell deep within the Dominican Catholic cities of the far south, in the Germanias and Gallias.

Even the wind seemed to whisper a mournful tune to him of farewell, for his task was one which no man in a hundred years- five hundred years, had succeeded in. Daniel was a Boreasic Messenger, one of the Fini and more than simply a member of that legendary tradition. He was a member of the Ard Ri of Warre's Fini, yes- but he had a calling beyond that.

He was a dreamer.​

A man must follow his dreams.​

For only the Brave live Forever.​

 

[Warre]

No one could question the boy's courage, his voice, his fist's and feet. He was an able as an An Lyric man could hope to be, so in the eyes of his people, thrice as able as the men out other lands. Yet he had no father but myth, but the grandfathers and the whispers of the wind. He wasn't stupid, and he was vaguely christian- enough that he was quite sure deities didn't just flop down on the world, shag some women, and leave illegitimate sons. Well, not commonly enough that it would've been like it was for him and the others, those sons of their own maternal grandfathers in all rights- or sons of no one who were destined to be robbers or mercenaries or something otherwise unhonorable, like a dominican monk or a banker.

Which had brought him to another thought; Who thought Gold was worth more than tin, anyways? It was all gaudy metal- and gold couldn't strike down sidhe, protect your spirit from the bone wrenching call of the Bann Sidhe.

By finding the lost remnants of their ancient empire- by restoring the old glory of the tribes once again; then he could carve his own name. Lo by his fathers and his grandfathers, lo by his mother and his siblings unborn- there would be no matter of importance applied to any boy's before him simply because their father's were the local ri, or they were sons of the red branch's warriors, or whatever was the case.

So his leather sandals, good leather made from a strong bull's hide slapped against the cool green grass of the hills of Kilkerry, the youth's haversack, his bagpipes, and his axe all swinging with his steps- like an ocean of movements crashing against the waves of his body and his haphazard steps over the random loose stones he encountered, his spear ahead of him like any good walking staff should, guiding the way and testing the tall grass for hidden pitfalls.

Soon this young runner of Warre was near the southern port of Lumina, the city said to be born of the light of Aodh himself, carved amongst the bones of some dread sea monster. And as Daniel strode down the northern path which led towards the city, he could believe it- even if his eyes told him that was stone, not bone, all around him.

And so the youngling thought of his next step. A warrior is nothing without brother's in arms, and no man is an army which can strike down the sea herself on his own. So the first matter of business would be to find a ship with a capable captain, to find brother's in arms.

The boy pressed the reed to his lips and sent forth a breath to rival the wind filling the sails of those fishing vessels out on the sea. His hands began to manipulate the instrument, and soon all eyes upon the dock square were upon him, some glaring, some with jovial surprise, some with confusion, and one, one, with drunk glee, literally drunk, as the drunkard continued to chug from a flask of what seemed to be whiskey- if the color as it dripped down his chin was anything to say of it.

And then, one of them almost got to the point were they said, “Well, what is it, pup?” but Daniel caught the movement and glared at the man, cutting him off.

“I need a ship, a ship that'll take me a long long way, longer than any man has in a hundred years. I know the path, and I know the messages which must be spread, but they matter little if I can't get there.”

The would-be heckler's buddy, missing a few of his teeth and with the others black as could be, cut in there, “Well what'cha got ta hire a ship and us for such a long voyage? Gold? Land? Cattle? Tin? Iron? Goods too trade to the southerners?”
“A chicken?”
“Wha-? Fergus, what'd I tell ye about interrupting me?”
“Wot? I like chicken!”

And Daniel, despite having none of these things, shook his head and stood his ground, “No, I don't have any of these things- just a dream, just a dream.”

“Dreams don't stock ships, or put food on the table, or pay fancy Breotonian or Terrastanian Harlots, boyo! Not even a cheap Talemantine wench, or for god's sake, a drunk Bantyric woman!”

“Dreams were all our ancestor's needed! And you could have women falling at your feet if we succeeded! And fruits!”

“Fruits ain't worth no years of me life, boy, now bugger off, ya damn nog; little cricket ga chirpin elsewhere.”

Daniel stomped his feet, but the crowd dispersed, all but the drunkard, who hiccuped, hiccuped, hiccuped some more, and then burped some, “I, aye, aye gotta ship. Ain't what ya call the most liked ship, as sometimes I uh- well sometimes people get in me way and I been known to ram them, but it's a good ship, and I'm the best pilot in the whole of the Lyras.”

“You're drunk, sir.”

“So dem fruits, are they orange colored? They peel? How you know? Got any of dem? I like those fruits.”

And then the drunk started clambering back to his boat, with Daniel unwittingly and unwillingly following all the while.

 

[Warre]

At the threshold of the drunkard's ship, Daniel stood in silence, in protest to the Heavens and Horizons themselves. As if shouting at the top of his lungs, 'this is all you provide for my journey? This is the arms and armor you would provide to return your chosen children's empire? To the dreams of dreamers?'

But then a voice shout out from the horizon, like thunder. It's place not too easily seen, as the drunkard, a Dverian if his ochre and woad colored tattoos upon his arms said anything, he had been the source of this voice.

“We make due with what we can. A Tiburan child would cry for his father's death in pitched battle, but be lost to the savagery of the world if for not the kindness of others. Yet a Lyric child knows in the deepest part of his heart, his people are always with him, and his fate lays with none other than the spirit in his chest and his hands showing others who's best.”

The words rang out like a prayer, and indeed they were- one of the many prayers and ritual chants of the Lyric people. A tone which Daniel knew all too well, for it was the song of fatherless sons also.

So Daniel countered as he followed the sounds onto the ship, “For the day is won by the brave, those who see past the mired doubts of the day.”

“Those who know that they aren't one for someone else to save, who proudly jump into the fray.”

“These are the sons of An Lyr, the sons of the sea that cradles us even when we rest upon the swaddling clothing we call land.”

“For the earth is the mother, and the sea our father.”

Then the prayer was over, and the drunkard strode from the cabin of his ship, eyes strangely cognate, posture exact and proper, the picture of his previous persona's opposite. From his haversack he pulled out a farl of soda bread, an some of what one could assume to be Jerky.

“Eat with my, brother.”

And so Daniel moved to, sitting down upon the boat's deck and accepting his share.

“Why the drunkard act?”

“I'm a pirate.”

“A pirate?”

“I dunnae think I stuttered, a pirate. Those sailors take stupid risks and I well, raid them for it, especially those who are heavy laden with goods bought with spoils of them robbing people. Once, we were all family, and once- the world feared us, the Tiburans themselves quivered at the sight of our ships darkening the horizon when we went off to raid their settlements, their colonies- and in the greatest of times even Tibura itself.”

Daniel had no response, he simply tore into the jerky, mutton from the taste of it, with intensity he didn't expect, the boy was hungrier than he had thought.
“Now we squabble like children, and not even the Ard Ri of the Greatest of the Lyric Kingdoms can unite us when it's necessary. If the Nordics, if the Germanics, if they just pushed together hard enough they could turn us into thin dust.”

Daniel's eyes were surprised at this coming from a pirate, for sure, but his words came quick in response.

“Which is why it must change. Those we lost to the winds and the squabbles of our fathers over our grandfather's treasures, they must be recovered, we must learn again to act like a family.”

And then the drunkard let out a wide grin, and a maniacal laugh. “I knew ye were different, boy. You can call me Ulric.”

And then Daniel noticed his teeth were quite well taken care of, this sailor must really know more than he liked to imply.

“So you'll follow me, so we may find them?”

“To the end of the world itself. But you know the rule in such things.”

Of course Daniel did, seven was the lucky number, the holy number as it were. Seven tribes of An Lyr, Seven Seas, Seven Winds, and no man was more lucky than the seventh son of a seventh's son.

“There must be seven.”

“So we have two.”

They made preparations, and BallyBrenden upon Caorachstyr, the greatest of the Dveries, was to be their destination.

 

[Warre]

“So we sing, so we sing, my blood is ochre, my breath cold as iron.”

So the verse was carried over the cool mist overed sky of the Lyrin, called little sea, that body of water which the Germanics would dare to call 'Gothic' after themselves.

“Ay, Ay, I say 'ROW, ROW, ROW,' do so with that same passion you swing cold iron through the mists,”

The verse continued, like bird song blooded with a well placed arrow, it strummed across the water the same way that the boat did as its oars hit the cold northern sea.

“So we sing, so we sing, my blood is ochre as my breath is cold as iron.”

And they cut the cool sea with the same tension of a blade into a man's chest, elbows bent and eyes narrowed. It was an ancient ritual, this song a terror on the long sea and the full of the Tiburan coast- or at least it and its cousins. A Lyric war song, and so they continued.

“Ay, ay, I saw 'ROW, ROW, ROW,' do so with the same skill as a womanizer in search of more trysts.”

“So we sing, so we sing, my bloo-” “I dunnae want to sing this song, Ulric, its bad luck to sing it when you're not on a raid- or do you want some fisherman on the coast to pick up his bow and send some sliver of hell from the sky to us?”

“It's tradition for heroes!” the painted man, the Dverian pirate shouted out.

“We're no heroes. I'd rather sing about whores if we're gonna sing.”

“Which one about whores?”

“Good question.”

So they continued to row, their sails kept closed so that the enemies of Ulric would not happen upon them with ease.