Post by dunadaine on Jul 20, 2011 19:04:13 GMT -5
The armor that you bear comes from Scatha's horde, does it not? I would know it anywhere, by the sheen of the plate and the ancient inscription, that you cannot see. Hear the tale, and ponder it. Your path is full of darkness and death - more than you or any of your companions realize. In the days to come, may this serve as a light for your path. Know that the Dagda watches over all, and though we may not see the Swift Sure Hand at work, it is always around us, upholding us, cradling us, and protecting us from the Black Flame.
He pauses, and reaches behind himself and produces a stone pitcher, from which he pours to tall goblets of the same stone. He offers you one, containing a dark red wine, smelling strongly of oaken casks and spice. Though not overly strong, it goes down smooth and warms the heart, and clears the head.
You and I exist in different worlds, my child. I see much which you do not. Do not despair, this is the nature of things. The Elder Children of Dagda are so blessed, and so cursed. When you see this room, you are aware of stone and rock, gold piled and works of art. You do not see the walls of timber and stone, sod and earth. You do not see the shadows that tread the floor, and speak to me, asking for my advice and help, yet heeding it not. You see a stone upon which I sit, while I see the stone, but also a chair or ivory and gold. Your perception is limited by your nature, as mine is enlarged by mine.
Yet ignore the ramblings of this old wyrm, my child, and hear the tale of Goffanon. He stretches out his legs in a most inhuman display of flexibility, and pours himself more wine as well as offering more to you.
When the dew of creation had dried on the earth, and the Children of the Dagda had sundered from each other; when the Giants had laid the land to waste and been locked away... after this time, but long before the trees that are ancient now were first rooted or their father's father's father's rooted... there was a man named Gofannon. He was a large man, though not tall. His hair was wiry, his beard thick, his hands large and knobbed, his legs stout, and his shoulders broad. His skin, ruddy to begin with, was burnt the color of chestnut bark by the fire of his forge. He delighted in the sound of the hammer on the anvil, in the smell of the furnace, in the feel of the tongs, in the hiss of the water as the metal cooled in its embrace. He was happy to be alone with his tools and his craft, and he lived in a glade in the wood, near the running stream that he used to gather water for his work. He lived alone for many years, receiving visitors rarely, but always tending to his work, which was much sought after for its quality, its beauty, and its usefulness.
One day a young stranger approached Gofannon, as much dissimilar to him as could ever be. Where Gofannon was short, the youth was tall. Where Gofannon was thick and muscular, the youth was slim and graceful. The youth was fair and flaxen haired under a hooded cloak, with smooth skin on both hands and face. In all, the only similarity seemed to be the lack of words that both shared. Indeed, Gofannon had finally met someone who spoke less often than he. When the youth approached, Gofannon offered a drink to him, which was graciously accepted. The youth gestured in thanks, but made no other sound. When Goffanon asked what he wanted, the youth merely looked at the tools and the fire, an obvious longing in the green eyes that lay in that flawless face. He walked over to the anvil, and picked up the hammer gingerly; this surprised Gofannon, for the hammer was heavy and awkward for most but himself. The youth then began to strike blows with it, solid and even blows which, though they looked odd, were clearly the blows of a smith-born man. Gofannon asked the youth if an apprenticeship was what he sought. After a few moments, the youth smiled and nodded silently, white teeth glistening in the morning sun that shone through the green canopy above.
For weeks the two worked together, Gofannon instructing and the youth listening. The youth swiftly became blackened and grimy, like the master, and for this reason Gofannon gave him the name "Piran", meaning "little black one", a play on the youth's obvious advantage in height. Though they never spoke, the bond between them grew until it seemed to Gofannon that they had always been together, working and living like this.
Moons passed, and gave way to seasons and then the turning of the year. Still Piran had not spoken, and still Goffanon had not pressed for speech. When questioned, Piran had ways to demonstrate understanding, and it never seemed odd to Goffannon that he could understand the meaning of the acolytes most obscure gestures. Thus they lived, until at last, the day came, far sooner than Gofannon had imagined, that Piran had learned all that he could learn under Goffannon's tutelage. On that day, Goffannon set him free, late in the evening, and then promptly turned and walked into his hut, pulled the skin across the opening, and lay down on his straw mat. When he awoke the next morning, he left the lodging, and left his headrest to dry from the tears he had shed in the night.
But much to his wonder, when he reached the forge, Piran was already stoking the fire and working to make things ready for the day's labor. Goffannon was shocked, but did not know what to say. He silently nodded at Piran, and set to work. They worked in silence through the day, and Goffannon again made his proclamation to Piran in the evening, that the apprenticeship was complete. Again, he retreated to his rooms. This pattern continued another day, until the third morning, when Goffannon could take no more. He railed and screamed, he cursed and swore, he did everything he knew to convince the young one to leave. He explained that it was time for the youth to set up his own forge, in some other place, to be a responsible and important person in his tribe and clan - he did not want to be among the clanless, like Goffannon. He sobbed, and shared his own story of dishonor, of fouling the Pool of Reflection in his village with his work and running away in shame. He told of his wanderings, and his work, and his obsession with perfection... he told all this to the youth who silently gazed at Gofannon, never once turning away those green eyes.
When Gofannon had spent his rage, the youth did the most surprising thing, something that the youth had heretofore never done in the presence of Goffannon - he removed his cowl. Goffannon gaped as long blonde locks fell from the hood, golden hair more beautiful than any precious metal he had ever gazed upon. Suddenly the youth's features made perfect sense to him; the acolyte was not a young man, but a young woman! Goffannon grew red in the face, visible even through the grime, as he thought of the times he had relieved himself in front of his apprentice, and it made sense to him now that the apprentice had never joined him in the stream to bath.
Now it was Goffannon who was speechless, as the young woman bent down in the dirt and scratched out her name, Lassar, meaning "flame" in the dust of the glade. Still she did not speak, but instead took his hand and led him to the hut where she had slept these long seasons past. She bade him wait, and ducked inside, before quickly returning with a piece of metal, which took away his breath. It was a red copper piece, cunningly forged and crafted. It was shaped like a dragon, coiled and looped in flight. Around the outer edge was a band of black metal, unlike anything that Goffannon had seen before, stronger than steel, glistening like obsidian. The dragon's eyes were green emerald, and its flaming breath ruby inset in the copper. He quickly realized that it was not pure copper though, and it struck him then that this would not tarnish, because of some metallurgical skill and craft that Lassar had worked into it, unknown even to him what its nature could be.
She pressed it into his palm, and swiftly kissed him on the mouth, the softness of her lips shocking on the abrasiveness of his own. Before he could speak, she turned and strode away, walking towards the center of the glade. He made to follow her, but as she reached the center, her body seemed to extend upwards into the sky, taking on a reddish-gold hue, and she was gone. All that remained was the dust stirred by her wings, a scorch mark in the center of forest floor, and the token she had created for Gofannon.
He takes another drink, and sits pondering for a moment, as though lost in the story of his telling. Quickly coming back to himself, he continues.
I do not wish to bore you with the remaining details. Suffice to say, Goffannon left his forge in the forest, seeking his fair apprentice. He gathered up his arms, his sword Hammerhand and his spear Fang, and he set out. But first he forged for himself a new armor, looking like the scales of the dragon that he had realized he loved. Like burnished scales the breastplate looked, but a solid piece it was. Inlaid into the center of the chest he laid the token, and lacquered over it in liquid diamond. It was his love for Lassar that imbued the armor you bear with its powers, and the sacrifices he made on his journey to find her. His blood hallowed it, saining it like an alter.
In the end he found Lassar, through many trials and tribulations. His love and his honor and his valor carried him through to her, and they were united at last again. It was fated that they meet again, ordained by Samildanac. There meeting was the saving of many lives, and a story worth the hearing. But that story is for another time, perhaps told by one more familiar with it than I, though perhaps I will finish it another time that I cannot forsee.
You spoke of war in your world, and war in Albion. I tell you this - forget your world, for so I prophecy: when you next see the shadow world with your waking eyes, you will rue that day for the remainder of your life. I do not bring this to pass, nor wish it... perhaps it may yet be averted. But I warn you of what my heart tells me. I know nothing more of it, but understand this: your world is held together by this one. Without Albion, Alba will crumble. The Black Flame burns cold and sweeps across this land... it must be extinguished. If not, it will consume your world and this... all possible worlds.
Yet I speak a harsh truth to you. If you would save your land, you must lose it. I speak in mysteries, for so it is revealed to me. Yet always recall this, my child - Albion is the key. Albion is the reality.
"Blood is born of blood, and flesh is born of flesh. But Spirit is born of Spirit, and with the Spirit evermore remains. Before Albion is One, the Hero Feat must be performed and Silver Hand must reign."
He pauses, and reaches behind himself and produces a stone pitcher, from which he pours to tall goblets of the same stone. He offers you one, containing a dark red wine, smelling strongly of oaken casks and spice. Though not overly strong, it goes down smooth and warms the heart, and clears the head.
You and I exist in different worlds, my child. I see much which you do not. Do not despair, this is the nature of things. The Elder Children of Dagda are so blessed, and so cursed. When you see this room, you are aware of stone and rock, gold piled and works of art. You do not see the walls of timber and stone, sod and earth. You do not see the shadows that tread the floor, and speak to me, asking for my advice and help, yet heeding it not. You see a stone upon which I sit, while I see the stone, but also a chair or ivory and gold. Your perception is limited by your nature, as mine is enlarged by mine.
Yet ignore the ramblings of this old wyrm, my child, and hear the tale of Goffanon. He stretches out his legs in a most inhuman display of flexibility, and pours himself more wine as well as offering more to you.
When the dew of creation had dried on the earth, and the Children of the Dagda had sundered from each other; when the Giants had laid the land to waste and been locked away... after this time, but long before the trees that are ancient now were first rooted or their father's father's father's rooted... there was a man named Gofannon. He was a large man, though not tall. His hair was wiry, his beard thick, his hands large and knobbed, his legs stout, and his shoulders broad. His skin, ruddy to begin with, was burnt the color of chestnut bark by the fire of his forge. He delighted in the sound of the hammer on the anvil, in the smell of the furnace, in the feel of the tongs, in the hiss of the water as the metal cooled in its embrace. He was happy to be alone with his tools and his craft, and he lived in a glade in the wood, near the running stream that he used to gather water for his work. He lived alone for many years, receiving visitors rarely, but always tending to his work, which was much sought after for its quality, its beauty, and its usefulness.
One day a young stranger approached Gofannon, as much dissimilar to him as could ever be. Where Gofannon was short, the youth was tall. Where Gofannon was thick and muscular, the youth was slim and graceful. The youth was fair and flaxen haired under a hooded cloak, with smooth skin on both hands and face. In all, the only similarity seemed to be the lack of words that both shared. Indeed, Gofannon had finally met someone who spoke less often than he. When the youth approached, Gofannon offered a drink to him, which was graciously accepted. The youth gestured in thanks, but made no other sound. When Goffanon asked what he wanted, the youth merely looked at the tools and the fire, an obvious longing in the green eyes that lay in that flawless face. He walked over to the anvil, and picked up the hammer gingerly; this surprised Gofannon, for the hammer was heavy and awkward for most but himself. The youth then began to strike blows with it, solid and even blows which, though they looked odd, were clearly the blows of a smith-born man. Gofannon asked the youth if an apprenticeship was what he sought. After a few moments, the youth smiled and nodded silently, white teeth glistening in the morning sun that shone through the green canopy above.
For weeks the two worked together, Gofannon instructing and the youth listening. The youth swiftly became blackened and grimy, like the master, and for this reason Gofannon gave him the name "Piran", meaning "little black one", a play on the youth's obvious advantage in height. Though they never spoke, the bond between them grew until it seemed to Gofannon that they had always been together, working and living like this.
Moons passed, and gave way to seasons and then the turning of the year. Still Piran had not spoken, and still Goffanon had not pressed for speech. When questioned, Piran had ways to demonstrate understanding, and it never seemed odd to Goffannon that he could understand the meaning of the acolytes most obscure gestures. Thus they lived, until at last, the day came, far sooner than Gofannon had imagined, that Piran had learned all that he could learn under Goffannon's tutelage. On that day, Goffannon set him free, late in the evening, and then promptly turned and walked into his hut, pulled the skin across the opening, and lay down on his straw mat. When he awoke the next morning, he left the lodging, and left his headrest to dry from the tears he had shed in the night.
But much to his wonder, when he reached the forge, Piran was already stoking the fire and working to make things ready for the day's labor. Goffannon was shocked, but did not know what to say. He silently nodded at Piran, and set to work. They worked in silence through the day, and Goffannon again made his proclamation to Piran in the evening, that the apprenticeship was complete. Again, he retreated to his rooms. This pattern continued another day, until the third morning, when Goffannon could take no more. He railed and screamed, he cursed and swore, he did everything he knew to convince the young one to leave. He explained that it was time for the youth to set up his own forge, in some other place, to be a responsible and important person in his tribe and clan - he did not want to be among the clanless, like Goffannon. He sobbed, and shared his own story of dishonor, of fouling the Pool of Reflection in his village with his work and running away in shame. He told of his wanderings, and his work, and his obsession with perfection... he told all this to the youth who silently gazed at Gofannon, never once turning away those green eyes.
When Gofannon had spent his rage, the youth did the most surprising thing, something that the youth had heretofore never done in the presence of Goffannon - he removed his cowl. Goffannon gaped as long blonde locks fell from the hood, golden hair more beautiful than any precious metal he had ever gazed upon. Suddenly the youth's features made perfect sense to him; the acolyte was not a young man, but a young woman! Goffannon grew red in the face, visible even through the grime, as he thought of the times he had relieved himself in front of his apprentice, and it made sense to him now that the apprentice had never joined him in the stream to bath.
Now it was Goffannon who was speechless, as the young woman bent down in the dirt and scratched out her name, Lassar, meaning "flame" in the dust of the glade. Still she did not speak, but instead took his hand and led him to the hut where she had slept these long seasons past. She bade him wait, and ducked inside, before quickly returning with a piece of metal, which took away his breath. It was a red copper piece, cunningly forged and crafted. It was shaped like a dragon, coiled and looped in flight. Around the outer edge was a band of black metal, unlike anything that Goffannon had seen before, stronger than steel, glistening like obsidian. The dragon's eyes were green emerald, and its flaming breath ruby inset in the copper. He quickly realized that it was not pure copper though, and it struck him then that this would not tarnish, because of some metallurgical skill and craft that Lassar had worked into it, unknown even to him what its nature could be.
She pressed it into his palm, and swiftly kissed him on the mouth, the softness of her lips shocking on the abrasiveness of his own. Before he could speak, she turned and strode away, walking towards the center of the glade. He made to follow her, but as she reached the center, her body seemed to extend upwards into the sky, taking on a reddish-gold hue, and she was gone. All that remained was the dust stirred by her wings, a scorch mark in the center of forest floor, and the token she had created for Gofannon.
He takes another drink, and sits pondering for a moment, as though lost in the story of his telling. Quickly coming back to himself, he continues.
I do not wish to bore you with the remaining details. Suffice to say, Goffannon left his forge in the forest, seeking his fair apprentice. He gathered up his arms, his sword Hammerhand and his spear Fang, and he set out. But first he forged for himself a new armor, looking like the scales of the dragon that he had realized he loved. Like burnished scales the breastplate looked, but a solid piece it was. Inlaid into the center of the chest he laid the token, and lacquered over it in liquid diamond. It was his love for Lassar that imbued the armor you bear with its powers, and the sacrifices he made on his journey to find her. His blood hallowed it, saining it like an alter.
In the end he found Lassar, through many trials and tribulations. His love and his honor and his valor carried him through to her, and they were united at last again. It was fated that they meet again, ordained by Samildanac. There meeting was the saving of many lives, and a story worth the hearing. But that story is for another time, perhaps told by one more familiar with it than I, though perhaps I will finish it another time that I cannot forsee.
You spoke of war in your world, and war in Albion. I tell you this - forget your world, for so I prophecy: when you next see the shadow world with your waking eyes, you will rue that day for the remainder of your life. I do not bring this to pass, nor wish it... perhaps it may yet be averted. But I warn you of what my heart tells me. I know nothing more of it, but understand this: your world is held together by this one. Without Albion, Alba will crumble. The Black Flame burns cold and sweeps across this land... it must be extinguished. If not, it will consume your world and this... all possible worlds.
Yet I speak a harsh truth to you. If you would save your land, you must lose it. I speak in mysteries, for so it is revealed to me. Yet always recall this, my child - Albion is the key. Albion is the reality.
"Blood is born of blood, and flesh is born of flesh. But Spirit is born of Spirit, and with the Spirit evermore remains. Before Albion is One, the Hero Feat must be performed and Silver Hand must reign."