Broken Hilts, Shields, And Faith

[Guest]

((I'm writing this at three in the morning. Bare with me l0l))

 

 

"I am a highlander."

 

These were the words a middle-aged Adunian man told himself in times of doubt and distraught. To make all strife split around him these words shielded him; hid him from the troubles of the world. But, what happens when the words themselves meet opposition? Simply enough that once strong shield deteriorates until it is no more than the strap that proud man stuck his arm into before. Now nothing is left for the man to block those mighty attacks.

 

"I've been a highlander all my life."

 

And easily enough the warrior dons a new shield. This one is certainly made of sterner stuff than the rest. However, does the word been not contradict this claim? Been is the past tense participle of be after all. Does that not make the shield an insecurity, a dagger to plunge into himself rather than to deflect a possibly killing blow? 

 

"My father was a highlander, an' 'is father before 'im."

 

None should ever bother to find the defensive symbolism behind these words. They mean nothing. Was is not is and thus logically it wouldn't exist at this point. There is no shield to be found here. Nevertheless this argument is pointless. The issue still stands taller than the shield. He was called a lowlander.

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A mere few Human months ago, Daeglan MacCulloch, High Steward of Ryme'Val was called a lowlander. In reflex he challenged a man of high esteem to a duel as to retain his pride. Daeglan challenged the Battlelord, the Chief of Chiefs, Morvan Orvar. The Adunian found himself at their domain in Cailean. In due time Daeglan emerged from the duel victorious. Unfortunately to many eyes his honor was only further stained as the tactic within said duel were inexcusably cheap and dirty. Opinions of brutes and savages, that's what Daeglan thought to himself. Their input did not matter. He won, fair and square. When you're over half a foot shorter than a beast charging at you, instincts should kick in. Honorable swordplay is not always victorious swordplay, and Daeglan knew that for many years. 

 

How could he have defeated a man who trains for battle rigorously, day by day? If he were still a lad, Daeglan wouldn't have an answer for the inquirer. All he knew was that the Old Faith died a long time ago. Its name suited the religion well. Thrønn, Grønn, Morighean. If these Gods were real, they'd have perished many years past. Daeglan MacCulloch was baptised in the name of the Creator. His faith was true. Once he had prayed to the seven skies above he found victory. Without God, Daeglan feels almost completely certain that his side of the battle would've turned sour in mere seconds. The Old Faith of the North only brought him despair. The True Faith brought him the strength and vigor he hadn't felt in decades. 

 

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28th of the Grand Harvest, 1433. Daeglan was 40 years old and had just pledged his loyalty to something so insignificant, something so unimportant and simple. His nuptial day was shared with a clanless Adunian woman named Isbeil. She hadn't a mina to her name. There was no legacy behind her and nor would there be ahead. And for whatever reason that didn't matter to him. In all the adventures he already had, nothing could've been as generic yet magical as that day. Vibrant, braided red hair revealed a narrow worrisome face. It was that face that Daeglan would forever be the most accustomed to, and the most mournful of. To his shock, he outlived his love. Marked that-- his gravest mistake.

 

3rd of the Amber Cold, 1444. Isbeil was hanging apparel over a clothesline to dry when Daeglan was out hunting in the woods near Brom'Krah. Screeching echoes boomed past the pine trees. Barely recognizing the sound, the man rushed back to his cabin only to find it alight. Instead of finding his love, his Star of Morighean, (as he would oft call her) Daeglan discovered one Northman with his back turned pissing out some of the fire. 

 

The Adunian hastily barked at the Northman, "Wha' are yeh doing to me 'ouse?! Where's Isbeil?! Who th' fawk are yeh. . . speak dammit!"

 

"A Northerner, now bugger off." the man retorted ignoring most of Daeglan's inquisition and pulling his trousers back up. The man grumbled incoherently whilst shifting around to face Daeglan. At that point Daeglan decided he didn't care about the cabin. He snapped a demand to the Northman, "Yeh bes' tell me where th' fawk me woife is before I string you like tha' clothesline!"

 

"Clothesline?" a confused expression took hold of the Northman's face before he suddenly snapped his fingers together, "You mean the pile of ash. As for your /wife,/ she's taken company with my mates. I s'pose she grew tired of you."

 

Suffice to say, before moon-rise the Northman burned along with the cabin. And from that day on Daeglan never again saw Isbeil. He never heard from her. The sky to Daeglan looked dimmer than ever, and he lost any trust in the Three. Gods who let a merry man become a widower are no Gods at all. He never again prayed to the Three. He never again spoke to Morighean, for she had abducted his star. Daeglan gave up on the Old Faith of the North, and he gave up on love.

 

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Clenched tightly was a burnt, tattered piece of cloth trembled in his balled fist. Daeglan had it stuffed into a pocket of his within that thick cloak he typically wears as the High Steward trekked up the steps to the grand feast Lord Eldaril Elendil was hosting. To his misfortune Daeglan spotted three Orvars on one side of the long dining table. He sat across from Aela Orvar, a tall and physically fit woman. They exchanged pleasantries for a mere few seconds before an argument broke out between him and the Gorundyr worshippers across from him. One thing led to another and Daeglan learned that Morvan came for feasting-- and for a rematch.

 

In hesitance, Daeglan accepted the challenge. Next he knew, the two men were being suited for that duel; one of definite honor. Daeglan was a High Steward. He was not a warrior, not a soldier nor a sell-sword. He wrote documents and taxed commoners. He did not sharpen steel and plunge it into flesh. He managed the economy and landholdings. He did not clank about in iron clad armor and swing a blade. Daeglan MacCulloch had no armor nor weaponry on him. 

 

During that moment companionship shined the brightest he had seen in over five decades. Lord Eldaril Elendil gave up his own armor for Daeglan to don. Corbett VanCleef surrendered his tower shield to aid his friend. Aep McLeod bestowed the broken hilt of his clan unto Daeglan for this fight. So it was: Daeglan was covered from head to toe in flexible armor with the Elendil's Bear of the North adorning the centre of his cuirass. A long and narrow tower shield was strapped to his left arm, baring the VanCleef fox. On his waist there was a broken hilt with jagged steel still held together. And with this, his longsword once forged in Brom'Krah was at his side. Daeglan tucked that tattered cloth into the shield's strap and was thus suited for battle. The middle-aged Adunian spoke with Aep McLeod then, "Gavin Douglas. . . a man who stole one of my sons' body now aids a man beset on his merriment to send me below."

 

"That is thoroughly disturbing." was roughly what the man replied. Daeglan bowed his head in accordance to such and knew for a fact that before death or victory he had made another true friend. These things were few in between. At this point Morvan Orvar was reaching the end of his prayers to the false gods, the Gorundyr above. 

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Daeglan waited impatiently but eventually Morvan came to meet him up on the balcony of Ard'Kralek. Their pointless banter lasted a while but in due time Daeglan found himself circling the Battlelord. Keeping in mind that he had to retain his honor in this duel, Daeglan refrained from dirty attacks and swipes. Being almost a foot shorter than the man, the middle-aged Adunian relied on the mass of the VanCleef tower shield within the fight the most. And even with his strong confidence, every time Daeglan lunged at Morvan with his shield the Chief of Chiefs met opposition with more might. The High Steward was pushed around for a good majority of their combative affair. 

 

At one point, Morvan had Daeglan leaning against the balcony; their shields scratching against each other. Daeglan was hardly able to scramble out with his life. And sadly enough he couldn't scramble out of every situation he found himself in. The duel raged on, steel clashing against steel and a bearded axe hooking every which way. His ultimate mistake was when Daeglan slashed down at Morvan's legs. The Battlelord ended up stomping down the blade and with one foul swoop the bearded axe met the back of an Adunian skull. Daeglan tried to stumble his way out of this predicament, but it was to no avail. His shield fell from his arm and the tattered cloth flew out from the strap. His friends were left in sorrow. His enemies in joy. He himself, in blood. 

 

But instead of staring at a defeated man past his prime, we shift our gaze to the road near Ryme'Val which the Viscontis paved. A middle aged maiden whose body is shrouded in a cloak paces down south. She hums a rasped tune to herself when she spots a peculiar fragment of burnt cloth falling gently in the air. The woman stops dead in her tracks and takes a moment to watch the cloth bury itself into the snow. Isbeil starts off once more, none knowing where the destination lies. 

 

Daeglan MacCulloch III

Friend - Man - Highlander

1373 - 1466

 

[Glyc 234]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.