Seduction of the Amulet

Four Treasures of Tuatha Dé Danann

Elisabeth Marie Sommerset
Age 24
Lives in the Castle Eastnor Ledbury, Herefordshire
Year: 1879

Unlike most young women Elisabeth Marie Sommerset wasn't concerned with the dramatic tribulations of whom she would marry. Her status of wealth was set from the inheritance of her father, as well as what she would receive from her mother being the only child.
Elisabeth pursued the field of archeology having a romantic notion and fascination with the past, what was and what could have been.

She spent a good deal of her education traveling and volunteering in expedition's which allowed her to travel the world and go to places most would never see in their lifetime. Being a woman itself was difficult in this time and age, being one of independent mind and spirit didn't make it much easier. The men either pretended to accept her as their equal to try and gain favor with the hopes she'd agree to their advances of courting. Or the men were old cods that simply scoffed and didn't take her seriously.

Her last expedition was in Greece. The archaeological find of the year the papers called it. They had discovered some hieroglyphics that were buried deep in a cave. It signified the worshiping of the God Lugh.

The most interesting and tragic story that Elisabeth had read about him was the vengeance he took upon a man that seduced one of his wives. After killing the man he was taken revenge upon and drowned.

It always bothered her how a god could be killed. He was one of the more interesting gods she had researched. He was talented as a wright, a smith, a champion, a swordsman, a harpist, a hero, a poet and historian, a sorcerer, and a craftsman. He was also appointed Chief Ollam of Ireland.

With his story came the tale of the four treasures of Tuatha Dé Danann. There was the spear, the cauldron, the sword and the Stone of Fál. Each of these treasures came from four islands and were brought by Tuantha Dé Danann . Lughs portion of the treasure was a magical spear. Elisabeth believed she had discovered the staff ..or what she though was once the staff, but the spear head, the most valuable piece was missing. There was a good possibility that the treasures were split up in any way possible through out Ireland. If she could, she would find them.

Elisabeth was working on a theory regarding the treasures. There was a reason they had always been separate. The power that all three possessed was too much for just one god. Yet if she could find them, she could prove that there existence was more then a old folk tale.

Her theory was based on everything having a starting point. In the america's the Indian's had believed in many gods as well. Every culture it seemed had their own beliefs founded on things that had existed many generations. To say that one was wrong over another simply seemed asinine to her.

Of course her view were widely disapproved of. If she wasn't the sole heiress to a fortune that exceeded even the queen of England, there was a possibility she would have been banished. She felt for the people of Ireland. They had lost so much thanks to the country she resided in. They had even been banned from speaking their Gaelic tongue.

Being English, and a woman made her travels and inquires that much harder. But Elisabeth was persistent and head strong. She was also well liked wherever she went. She learned a long time ago never to speak down to anyone. The average person worked hard and had little to show for it. Her blessings were abundant. Not only did she have the wealth, but she had the looks as well. Downplaying them as much as she could had always been a conscious objective.

The Cauldron of the Dagda, was a magical pot that never left a recipient of its contents unsatisfied. So it was no coincidence that she had come to this pub. Yes there were many named the same, the Irish were proud of their lore. As they had every right to be.

With this being a small town she had little chance of her arrival being unnoticed. Walking in with a map rolled under her arm. She smiled saying a soft "Thank you" to the man that bid her welcome to the establishment.
Finding a table in the corner she spread out her map. She was working on a theory that involved four overlaying rectangles with intersecting triangular points. One of the points. ..pointed here. The exact coordinates.

It was too hot in the public house.

It always was, since Old Dag refused to open a window for any reason, and even now in the heat of summer kept a roaring fire going. "One log an hour and stoke those flames. Like that beautiful Olympic torch. Never let them die."

He'd been down to Greece last year, something for a doctor and those games had been held. The second time since they'd returned thousands of years ago Dag had said. A load of bollocks. But when Old Dag returned he'd said that the public house would also have a fire that never went out. He'd been chipper since but Louis 'Call me Lucky' Lynch hadn't stopped sweating it seemed since that day.

Sweat dripped from his dark curls, matted to his brow as he hefted a new barrel to the spigot, and with a hammering thud tapped the new cask. A froth burst forth, high pressure spray that doused the old grain wood of the home with another fresh batch of smells. The house came alive one more time as thirsty patrons came forward to taste Hops, Barley, and all the special secrets that the towns Best Brewmaster could provide. Today was special.

Some high lord or lady muckty muck was down from England. Talk of the town that some daft rich person was visiting their small little Irish burg. Didn't change Louis' life. Apprentice to Old Dag was two full jobs, brewing and bar keeping and a third short keeping him in whiskey and eggs. Still he told himself the trials would be worth it. He already made his own grogs. Served near the end of the nights when the folk had already had their mugs, but still wanted to booze. And if drunks could be good judges of taste he had those flavours down. Still he wouldn't be a brewer until he could craft a malt, and he wouldn't be a master until he could distill a small beer. Less is more was the saying in alcohol, and it's flavours. Well it was Old Dag's saying. Peculiar considering how much of the whiskey he consumed. Nothing changed the fact that Louis was apprentice to a drunk, and that people were more than happy to join his master's condition with any excuse. Any excuse at all.

"Boy."

The voice was less than tactful and more than insulting. Old Dag calling again.

"BOY!" It screeched, like the twist of a rusted pump handle, straining until it would break to bring water up. The cough would follow. "Lucky lucky boy. Come here and bring your master something hot." The slow trudge began, the shamble to hear what he wanted, in exclusion of any other patron, and the same hollow request. Hot whiskey, raw eggs, that red pepper from the American colonies. "Boy bring me your toddy. Hot, and sweet." So close. Heated whiskey to soothe the rattle in his cough. A little lemon, the strained sugar from the tea saucer, and the hottest kettle. Barely qualified as the booze, but the old man liked it.

"Boy." He wheezed as the drink was brought to him. "Boy I lay dying."

"Not this again Old Dag, I won't find the maid to wash you, not ever again"

"Quiet."

The short simple, hushed tone killed all the sound in the room. Even the merriment of the public house seemed far away, as old Dag drank the Toddy.

"Boy I lay dying, and I have not said a kind word to you since you took with me. You've learned and grown. From a small red cheeked ruddy boy to the young man you are. Any idiot can make someone blind drunk, but make the taste something your church mum kin stomach. That's a challenge. My guts are rotted. Old twisted vile things, and still this never comes up. Lynch. I can teach you no more. You are no master, but one day you will be. You are not my son, and this house cannot be yours. But take this ring, it is the spirit you've been missing since ever you came to my door, blond and beautiful and full of light."

"Dag."

"Out of my sight boy, and leave an old man to his drink. We have customers."

And back to the furnace he went. The night began, dark and unrelenting banished by the light inside. Drink flowed, songs were sung, and eventually she entered the room. Beautiful, and perfect. Like the coolest summer breeze, upon the wet slick skin of a lover's contented body. The endless waves that were the heartbeat of the world against Ireland's shores stopping in reverence for the merest of moments.

Just like his heart stopped when he saw her. He knew her, he remembered her. His eyes flashed blue, deep as the oceans, and his smile swung heavenwards. The oldest longing stirred in him. Raw. Base. Primal like the crack of creation. This woman was his, even if he never knew it before. Even if she never knew it before.

And just as suddenly Louis Lynch coughed a stammered welcome to Dagda's Cauldron and public house. His skin burned with embarrassment his cheeks reddened till they seemed to burn his brown hair black, and his green eyes searched the mug in his hands for anything left to wipe clean.

She sat, the perfect image of a lady, unfolding a paper, and without more than a soft smile went back to ignoring the rest of the world. An easy task for her, but impossible for them. To the town this was their visitor, to Louis, she was the only thing in the world that mattered right now.

The fire crackled and the public house burned even hotter.

The tavern wench came to take her order. As she glanced inquisitively at the paper Elisabeth folded it. "Beef stew and wine please" "We ain't got no wine here miss" was the reply she received.

"Your best Ale then please. And if you don't mind a wet towel, it's a bit hot in here." The wench nodded and disappeared back to the kitchen. Elisabeth disliked the heat, unless there was cold air about. The glances she received were the usual, a woman in a pub, a woman doing research, a woman reading. It was if their thoughts were broadcast throughout the walls. Glancing up she noticed the barman staring at her as well. She smiled again and unfolded her paper.

"small towns" she muttered to herself as she checked her figures. When the wench returned with her ale and some bread Elisabeth began the interrogation. "How long has this pub existed?" she questioned. "oye i dunno miss, it's always been here as long as i can reckon."

"I see, and why is it so bloody hot in here?" she asked taking the towel and wiping it over herself. "that be Dags idea of following the lighted torch, he went to greece ya know, big deal traveling. But i reckon you knows all about that."
"I do indeed, whats your name?" Elisabeth questioned with a smile. "Megan miss" the wench answered.
"Megan, how would you like to earn five pounds?"
The girls eyes grew wide then cautious. "how miss?" she asked with the need for the money overwhelming her.

"I'm looking for a cauldron with specific markings on it. Reaching in her bag she brought out a drawing. It would look something like this. I will give you ten pounds if you find it, and five just for looking. But that means going through every cauldron in this place."
"yes miss i understand, and yes miss i'll do it."
"good lass, and Megan, tell no one."
"Yes miss"
The wench disappeared again and Elisabeth went back to her map. It would be to easy if the Cauldron was here. But what if...No they wouldn't have mixed the treasures with such obvious signs.

Her stew arrived and she ate it slowly as she sipped her ale and pondered over the map. The looks at her were finally diminishing.

An Irish bloke, probably a farmer felt the urge to be brave and approached her. "You're a beautiful lass that needs a strong man to care for you." he announced taking a seat without asking.
Elisabeth took a deep breath and folded the map.

"I suppose you are that man?" she questioned siting back against and crossing her arms over that torso.
"I am indeed." his cocky grin stretching across his face.
"I'm amazed a man like you is still single, being such a great catch and all. But i'll let you in on a secret. There isn't enough ale in this establishment that i could consume, which would ever make you worthy of me."

Laughter echoed throughout the pub at the failed attempt by the local.
His face flushed at the bluntness and rejection, before it grew red.

"Now, i didn't ask you to sit down, nor do i require your company, go."

He brought his hands down hard on the table splashing her stew before getting up and stomping off. Having the towel she wiped the bits off of the map and her clothing.

Megan left and returned promptly, first out to her table with crusted rolls, and later to the bar, with the largest smile he'd ever seen her wear, even bigger than the night she'd been proposed to.

"Lucky, does Ol' Dag keep Coildrons in the back too? For brewing and other such things?" her question was bubbling forth, as she began to look at the stewpot from all directions casting glances when she thought no one was looking.

"I don't think so Ghans, just the oak casks, and barley bags. Maybe out by the still, But I think he does all the heating in glass. Nothing like a proper witch cauldron. "

The little freckles, and her screwed up button nose were so cute when she didn't get what she wanted, and Megan persisted for a second. "Cor, C'mon Lucky I know ye know, you practically live here in the cauldron, clean every dish and wipe every glass. C'mon I'll give ye a kiss Lucky." She winked and dipped herself down, flashing a short glimpse down the light cotton of her peasant blouse. "Just help a girl out."

Louis kept his eyes on the woman out front however, ignoring his server, as he watched with more than a little anger as Flynn, dumb as he was hitched his mud stained trousers and tried his usual approach. And it was with no small satisfaction that he watched him fail as usual too. He nodded his head. "O'course, serves that dumb gack right."

With a little shake Megan hugged him and gave his cheek a little kiss. "Oye knew I could count on you. Just stack the cookpots at the end of the night, and let me look through the edgings. I'm looking for some special one that my ma'am says Ol' Dag tricked her out of." She winked and gave him that little hip toss she reserved for boys she eyed about a hay tumble years ago, and for the moment Lucky was too shocked to understand what he'd agreed too. Between the desire to go smack Flynn up his curly red mop, and the pressing need to ask Megan why he'd agreed to stack every Cookpot in the place at the end of the night for her inspection, he was lost.

But Flynn was closer as he angrily stomped away from being shut out at the middle of the pitch. Looking for the strong barrel to drown that sting. Right behind the bar he came looking for it, and right into the kitchen by his curls he went, A good slap on the top of his head and another across his cheek left the bigger man reeling a moment, looking to square his fists up before Lucky slapped him hard enough to make him spit on the floor. "What is it with you Flynn that says you can't try to keep it in yer pants for one damn night. Whole town's waiting on her ladyship, some famous bitch richer than the queen, and you want to try and tell her she needs some man to keep her quiet and giver her brats to raise? You daft? Grog finally killed what little was working upstairs? Or did St. Peter shout personally that this was last call for the pearly gates and you figured you should get the rush on?" Lucky reeled quick, his hand shoving Flynn back towards the big cookpot. "You know what she can do to us here? Not like the politics aint bad 'nuff, but spose she really wanted this land for some new dig. Think we wouldn't all lose our friggin homes? I don't have much, but damned I'd lose the cauldron for a bag of gold. Bómánta. Take A small barrel and don't come back for the week." His eyes flashed blue, and deep, while his fist turned pale white, as he clenched too tight. He didn't want to thump Flynn, but something told him he would.

When he turned and took a breath Megan was watching. Flushed and breathing a little hard, she seemed a little scared, and a little angry. "I'm guessing you think her ladyship is important. She asked me for a glass of wine, and I told her we had none, but you been making that Honey mead for a bit now. You give her a cup, maybe it'd set her temper down a little. And another cold towel." Megan threw a sop rag in his face. Ice cold and dripping, it left it's sheen across his face as he fetched his last good bottle. He wrapped the bottle in it before he left, to sheepishly stand next to her table.

"My server tells me a little after the fact, you prefer wine with your meal. We don't get grapes here, it's too costly, but I make some old honey meade. It's local and not too stiff, and I thought you might like it more than the Ale you're drinking now." He placed a small earthen goblet down and filled it with the golden honey scented liquid. "It isn't much to say sorry but I removed that lout from the House, and while it can't mean anything to someone as wealthy as you, we here at the cauldron would like to get your clothes cleaned, and pay for your meal, to say sorry. Yer um ladyship."

There had been some shouting and some thumps and then the drunk lad that had attempted to hit on her promptly exited the bar with a barrel under his arm.
Shaking her head slightly she went back to the map until the lad at the bar came over to her with a goblet.

"My server tells me a little after the fact, you prefer wine with your meal. We don't get grapes here, it's too costly, but I make some old honey meade. It's local and not too stiff, and I thought you might like it more than the Ale you're drinking now." "It isn't much to say sorry but I removed that lout from the House, and while it can't mean anything to someone as wealthy as you, we here at the cauldron would like to get your clothes cleaned, and pay for your meal, to say sorry. Yer um ladyship."

Elisabeth looked up from her map and smiled warmly as she folded the paper and listened to the words the man said.

"I appreciate your thoughts, thank you for the drink, i look forward to trying it. I do however insist that nothing more be made out of the situation that occurred then need be. Its a travesty what has been done to your country. Please consider me a regular customer and allow me to pay my own way. I'm afraid I must insist on that." she smiled lightly and patted his hand.

"in fact" she spoke again quietly. "In the event anyone comes looking for me, i would appreciate not having been seen at all." she smiled and tipped him a pound with hope it would enough.

Taking a sip of the honey drink she let it wander about her pallet. "this is exceptionally good. " she closed her eyes for a moment letting it travel over her pallet. "Actually it is more then good. With your permission i would like to get in touch with some breweries in England. This drink would make a splash among society."

Her tone and meaning was quite genuine when she spoke to him. It was a taste even the most refined pallets wouldn't be able to turn down. In retrospect, it may help this good man in life. She enjoyed throwing out a hand to those that had earned it, in one fashion or another.

Her touch was like wildfire. It crept through his arm, and lanced out in millions of points, piercing him through and through. He didn't even realise how little breath he had till she folded a pound note into his palm, with the request to keep her presence a secret.

From whom? Who didn't know she was here? And who could possibly inconvenience a noble. Even if he did not understand though, he would keep her secret. Even if he would return her pound.

But it was the next statement that caught him by surprise. He knew he made a fine drink, but to sell it in England. To market it to nobility? Even more so than her soft hands, this took his breath away, stopping him in his tracks, as he thanked her and turned to leave. "Rud a choinneáil agat féin."

He turned back to return her pound note. "I don't know if you speak our language, but loosely it means to keep something for yourself." His hand came close to hers before stopping, placing the note squarely on the table. "Here I'm not much of someone, but in England I'd be less. In this town once old Dagda retires, or dies, I'll be the brewmaster. The town will rely on me to run an inn. Somewhere everyone can gather. Where visitors can come, where disputes can be settled, and where trade occurs. We're not a big city, everything is done fairly and locally. That recipe like any, is a part of me. It's something close to my heart, and close to this town. So while it is wonderful of you to offer it, I can not accept your offer. I have to keep that to myself."

His words came quietly that no one would hear him tell her no, and he felt cruel for denying her. "I am sorry my Lady. I know you meant a kindness."

He had work to do then. A favor for Megan, brew for the town, and to clean for the night. "I trust you will find the room to your liking. If you require anything ring the bell."

"I don't know if you speak our language, but loosely it means to keep something for yourself." Her eyes watched him place the pound back on the table. It was rare that anyone would deny financial gain, causing her eyebrow to raise slightly as he continued. "Here I'm not much of someone, but in England I'd be less. In this town once old Dagda retires, or dies, I'll be the brewmaster. The town will rely on me to run an inn. Somewhere everyone can gather. Where visitors can come, where disputes can be settled, and where trade occurs. We're not a big city, everything is done fairly and locally. That recipe like any, is a part of me. It's something close to my heart, and close to this town. So while it is wonderful of you to offer it, I can not accept your offer. I have to keep that to myself."
"I see' she replied lightly slightly disappointed that she wasn't able to help out someone with an obvious talent.
"I am sorry my Lady. I know you meant a kindness." She smiled softly forcing one of her dimples to become exposed. "Don't fret yourself about it. I have this habit of sticking my nose in where it doesn't belong. I enjoy helping people. Too much has been taken from your kinsman to not deserve some good fortune. But i also understand loyalty, honor and pride. Think no more of it."
"I trust you will find the room to your liking. If you require anything ring the bell."
She nodded "thank you, but i will only be here for a night. I've taken lodgings at a castle nearby. I appreciate you attempting to keep my presence as hush as it can be." she smiled again lightly.
"Before you go, you mentioned Dagda, would it be possible for me to speak with him?"

He paused walking away. Ol' Dag was stone drunk, and likely wasn't going to be very sober the next day either. But maybe some coffee, and a little Tabasco, he'd be awake enough to answer questions. And Louis had never seen Dagda refuse hard coins.

"I'll do my best, but he is ill, and I've prepared his brew already tonight. He's unlikely to stir, and should he; he'd have nothing to offer you. But tomorrow I will wake him early, and see if I can make him presentable for you."

He gave a small head bow, and walked out to do his night chores. The Inn certainly didn't clean itself, and now he'd rise early. And cauldrons. He promised to look for cauldrons, for the life of him he couldn't think why. Megan was already home, she'd be looking tomorrow, and he'd be dragging heavy iron all night. Another night of labour, and thumping his own shillelagh. He caught the lady as she took her leave, and sighed. A truly long night of it indeed.
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Chores.

Hadn't he outgrown these when his voice finished cracking? Still here he was. washing every mug by hand. The town gone to sleep, for their early mornings. But he stayed up alone, like he always did, washing cups, and pouring kegs into allsorts. More grog to distill. He stopped wiping his forehead clean with the wash towel. It was always so hot. Stripping his shirt he waited enjoying the only cold drink left to him, while he played with the small sharp sigil Ol' Dag had given him that night. A ring he said. With a three inch spike like a dagger. And too thick for even both of his thumbs together, it wasn't going to fit any of his fingers.

His dextrous fingers played it around, allowing the blade to slide softly over his knuckles the ring thumping thick and overly heavy. It's open mouth hungry for a slip, for him to nick his fingers, it seemed. How silly, it was just a strange piece of metal Ol' Dag had found. Moren' likely by pricking his skinny old arse on it. But it held such fascination. Louis could not stop it's turning. Until a pot fell, it's clang making him put the piece of steel into his pocket. There were dozens of cleaned containers. All forms of skillet and saucepan, and giant pots. Even a few honest to goodness cauldrons. It turned out Ol' Dag liked to boil turnips and potatoes separate. Sweeping. Mopping. It was long hours yet until he found himself looking in on the wee hours of the morning. Sure everyone was asleep and Megan not coming. No one coming. He breathed deep drying his hands of old residues, and then spitting into his palm let his trousers drop. He was a man, and a lonely one.

The first tug was always hard, and he would stiffen quick. The benefits of youth. Then his breath would catch as he thumbed that sensitive spot on top of his head. Nightly rituals. His hand the substitute for bonny lasses coming or going through the inn, the young he grew up with, now beauties with babes and husbands of their own. And the woman upstairs. The lady of the manor. Talk of the town. Gorgeous, Brown hair and soft blue eyes. Her hands the simplest softest touch in the world. Cultured smooth, with the faintest touch of real work, spent digging or planting. The hands of a real woman, combined with the untouchable beauty of nobility.

He gasped when he thought of her hands stroking him. When he closd her eyes to see her in that simple traveling outfit, her hand across his shaft. Stroking him with a coo. So far above his station and still here with him. He moaned hopefully not too loud, and quieted himself by biting his lip. His eyes opened and he saw his hand across his girth, and the ring. Like a sirens call he saw the ring. He still saw her but his hand stopped, his erection throbbing with need, it's messages forgotten though. It was simply the right size. Pinched between his thumb and index the ring looked to be the perfect fit of his penis. The sharp steel glinting with malice as he touched the cold steel to the burning head. Leaving the small smear of his pre across the tight ring, which fit just barely along his shaft. The head tight inside it, his hand leaving to grasp the blade.

"FUCK"

He bled. The cut in his hand not severe but painful the ring tossed to the ground. And not. It left his hand, blood on the blade, and filling the ring. Crimson dark then bright as a ruby. It pulsed. Beating with his heart, Flashed and the cut closed, Flashed and his eyes became bright blue. Crystal clear as a spring on a summer day, and brighter than the sun at noon. His hair blonde and flowing without a breeze.

Lugh stepped into the night, and saw Ireland in the new world. It had been hundreds of years since he last set foot on a field, and he watched the sheep. The night sky, He called and the head of his spear came. Full sized, almost a foot of killing glory, the ring a solid enough haft to make a handle. Then it was a ring again. Bound across his neck the point down in his chest. HE leapt into the night.

Louis woke, naked cold and tired in farmer Mcdonaugh's field Wondering just how he got there.

Elisabeth nodded thanking the barkeep for his assistance. She sat and pondered over her map some time before retiring to her room. At least the heat was a bit less there.

Her bed had been turned down for her with extra care. She could tell that they were going out of their way to keep her happy. There were many times she wished she could simply go unnoticed. But having money some how made the difference.

The blankets that were used looked new as well as the sheets. She hated that they went through so much trouble. Sitting at the window seat she opened them wide to let the cool air wash over her. The smells of Ireland at night were some of her favorite. Opening the book she began to read the story she had read a million times. It was the story of the God Lugh. There were several tales outlining the myth from different regions.

In both the welsh and Celtic version he was a twin. His brother was drowned and he survived. He had been married to a woman that betrayed him, she was commonly referred to as the earth goddess. There had been a son born as well. He was a master of all trades and also referred to as the son god.

Perhaps it wasn't healthy to have an obsession over what was considered a myth. But Elisabeth believed in the many gods that were, instead of the popular assumption there was simply one. This god was different. His long blond hair, his mighty shoulders, his deep blue eyes, he was what all gods should be. Not simply because of his striking good looks, but because of his curiosity and desire to learn all he could and master it.

It showed fortitude to do things on your own, instead of having things done for you. He was a favorite god of the past believers. For he was the closest thing to one of them. Elisabeth wasn't sure what she hoped to accomplish by finding the pieces of the treasure. She knew for certain that it could never be discovered if she did. There was an old wives tale that the possessor of an item of the gods could feasibly become the god. Although it was never written how that could occur. Some thought a ritual, some thought blood, others believed if they wore the item and stabbed themselves as sacrifice.

Closing the book she held it against her heart and closed her eyes whispering his name out to the moon.

The night was cold as Lugh stepped into it. The first time in centuries that he felt the weather, felt anything, and the first thought was that he was cold.

He almost danced right there. Then his glow brightened, and he was warm again. He looked over himself. Fair. Though that black hair, and that ridiculous flapping appendage. Light bursts, and his hair became a shock of gold, his eyes closed and when they opened that ridiculous flapping appendage was a proper spear again. He stroked his chin, and walked. enjoying the feel of country stones, greeting his soles.

"The shaft of my spear. It's close. So close." His eyes flitted over to the bloodstained blade on his neck. Knowing the connecting piece could grant him freedom of the meatpuppet he wore. A god on the earth once again. Though there were several already here, he was the youngest and easily the strongest. And the feel of the earth was simply so right. The wind across his face, that light film of stubble teased by a thousand prickles of the irish winds. The slight chill of the night air that made his skin prickle and feel alive. Each crash of the waves upon the shore like the heartbeat of the entire world.

Across the sea he could see the great mountains forged by his mother's hammer, in the rolling green hill he could see the curve of her hip. all across the land he walked. Animals perking up their heads at his passing. They at least knew when something was not of their existence. The bull in it's pen quieting and bowing it's horns while he traveled it's path. He exhaled and the breath danced, a small spirit that danced. Wheeling in the air for his amusement while his deep blue eyes followed it, only a few seconds until it dispersed, but the grandest show he had seen in hundreds of years. There was another here, perhaps not a god, maybe never before, or simply not yet. But there was a divine spark in the air. He walked returning himself to the Inn he had began at, looking through the window. His name still floated in the air. Spoken hours earlier from this dark window. Was that what called him? The mere utterance of his name? Powerful it was, but he could not imagine that. The Inn called one more time, and he circled it, till he found the still. new, impossible technology. For the distillation of spirits. He watched, heated it, followed the drop of alcohol, so much purer than his time into a flask.

"Perhaps the meat is not useless." He left then looking for what he would make, what he could create. Following the trails to the fields.

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Louis awoke In Farmer Mcdonaugh's field, Breath misting in the cold morning. Naked, mud covered, and clutching at several roots. He shivered in the fog, before wiping mud from his face, and noting the scraps in his hands. All alcohol flavours. In fact those white flowers would probably add something very nice to his whiskey. Had he gotten drunk and went looking for a new recipe? In the nude? he stalked quietly back towards the public house, trying his best to avoid any passerbys, until finally he opened the door to see Megan.

She glanced him up and down, her eyes almost hungry on his mud covered nudity. "Here I thought the cold made it shrink boyo." She giggled a him, as he shot her a dirty look. "None of those cauldrons be what I was looking fer. But thank ye. I'd give ye a kiss, but people'd talk if i kissed a man in the nude." she laughed, and it was beautiful if cutting. Megan had that kind of laugh.

"I'll be out back cleaning." And fetching Dagda, and sett the days meals. His work didn't end, until finally he was at Dagda's door, pulling the old man to a meeting he hadn't agreed to, on the say so of Lord smile-tightens-britches.

"Come now Dag she's harmless. Just rich and powerful and English, but harmless." He was pushing the old souse in a wheel barrow fighting weak slaps from the blanket covered old man. Mostly there was the relief that he was wearing pants when he'd been found. In much the same condition as Louis himself had been this morning. Though improved as he had actually had pants. That thought sunk into Louis' mind and he felt a little less of a man for it. Dagda had been in better shape than him this morning.

Into the cauldron they piled, and there the barrow sat, mud dripping from it's wheel on the floor where the oppressive heat slowly baked it to clay. A motley crew of imbeciles in front of the lady of the land. He smiled nervously, his breath catching as he looked over her. "We're here miss. This is the town Drunk."

"BREWMASTER"

"Old Dagda." Well this would be off to a lovely start wasn't it.

Elisabeth had made her way down the rickety steps once the bar was open. She was bombarded with more town folk then she had previously. If this continued she'd have to move on. But here, in her gut, she knew there were answers.

It seemed like forever before the barkeep arrived with Dagda in a wheelbarrow. She almost started laughing at the obscurity of it. However his embarrassed expression stopped her forcing her to sober her laughter to a smile.
The ole drunk didn't look the least bit pleased to be in her presence. Yet he struggled with some help out to take a seat with her.

"My name sir is Elisabeth Sommerset " she said lightly. "aye I know who you be lass, some uppity up from across the way. King and country blah blah" She couldn't help but laugh at his description of England.

"well yes, I am from England. May I call you Dagda?" she questioned. "aye that be my name lass" she could tell this wasn't going any where quickly. So she went ahead and blurted out what she wanted and watched his reaction.

"I'm looking for the four treasures of Tuatha Dé Danann" His fingers stopped fooling with the salt for a moment and then began again. "I see that you've heard of them" she advised softly. Dagdas eyes looked up at her and then back down. "I know not of what you speak, and if I did, I wouldn't be telling the likes of you now would I." With that he struggled to his feet and waddled out the door he was pushed in from.
Quickly she picked up her book and papers and went after him. "Dagda please" she pleaded as he walked.
"My goal is to keep them separate, I know the stories and the myths like the back of my hand. I believe they are real. I know about Lugh" with that he turned and headed back toward her with a look of rage in his old eyes. "Go home to England Lass, this is no place for the likes of you and your fancy shoes." "I will not" she declared not budging from her spot. "Suit yourself, but stop asking stupid questions."

She opened her mouth and then closed it. Slowly she rehearsed a line in her book. "The cauldron of Dagda, will never leave its recipients unsatisfied."
Dagda responded "It never has and it never will, even when this body is gone, I've ensured it will go on."

"Then you are.."
"I'm an old man that's tired of your words. Go away, I want none of what your selling"

She smiled and headed back to the cauldron. Taking two steps at a time she headed up to her room. Collapsing back on the bed her mind pondered over the words that were spoken. Could it really be, he was the true god Dagda. If that was true, then Lugh had existed as more then a myth. Of course she had always believed that. But other then the one treasure she's found, and the map leading her to another there had been nothing but tales.
She felt like a kid in the candy store as she held her book of tales to her heart.

"What do you mean Dag. You've ensured this place will go on when you're gone?" Louis touched eyes with the old man, who'd spoken more the last few days it seemed than the last few months. Even in his cups he'd been tight lipped. Weeping of old more often than not. Now.

"I mean I'm giving the tavern to you boy. That the Cauldron might never be empty, and the torch never die. That all who arrive might leave satisfied. That is important work boy, and I have not kept ya, clothed ya and fed ya for twenty long years that you might go elsewhere. You're not my son, but I know that you'll keep the spirit of this place, and the old ways alive. Won't you Lugh?"

The words were a shock, something that caused the flash of Blue eyes to appear to look at the old man through their lens, and to see more than simply an old, drunken, sick, man in a wheel barrow. It was faint. At the every edge of vision. But there he was. His grand belly stretching his tunic, his feet in simple leather wraps. His great robe closed about him, and a simple tunic, bulged by his stomach that didn't quite cover his swinging dick. Hanging proud and impossible beneath his clothes. His eyes merry and alight. The barrow that contained his earthly skinny frame, a great cauldron, impossible to fathom in size. Stretching under their feet, and to the rafters of the inn. The whole inn was the cauldron? Or the county? Dagda smiled at his friend, and clapped him on his shoulder eyes a twinkle with power, and wisdom.

"What is this place?" Lugh spoke first, as was his right. He was High King, chief Ollam of Ireland, and ruler of the Tuatha Dé Danann. "What is this shell? Are we reduced to living in these?"

"For all the god of knowledge and he is who is skilled with all, you hate to not know things don't ye? This is the cauldron. The small bar in the town of the same name. It's bounty that shall never disappoint is the toil and hard work of the people who live in it, and the master of a lone inn, where all can gather, and be filled. It is a simple metaphor and it loses some of it's magic, but then so have we. Still the cauldron itself will never empty. There is always stew in the pot. Even in the lean years, don't you find lamb in the cold crock? We keep some of our skills. I think you might keep more. Considering where we are. Now."

The location had changed. It was warmer, tighter perhaps than it had been. And all about were the industrious works of those things not man.

"The mounds." Lugh's breath came hot in the cold air, and light spilled from the glow in his eyes, his fingers. Bleeding into the dark around them, Illuminating the cavern.

"Dagda?"

"Yes Lugh?"

"I'm sorry I killed your boy. He took my woman though."

"Honey mouth? Aye, I know he did, boy didn't have the sense given to a fox looking at a guarded house. You had six wives, and he would have talked his way to all of them if you'd let him. That he had his own was inconsequential. he didn't love women, he loved himself. Peace, I don't blame you for his death. Just as I don't blame my grandchildren for yours. You ruled forty years Lugh. And now here ye are again. Like me, and your spear. Though I hope you won't be killing men as you once did with it, once you find it's shaft. Especially any more of my descendants." He laughed and so did Lugh, two gods enjoying the company of each other. Years from when they were last important figures. Enjoying the time between time. Lugh shining brightly, and the Dagda, slapping his belly. Laughter and light filling the mound until....

Until suddenly they were back in the inn. Roasting hot. The sweat on Louis's brow forming beads on his brow, even as he shivered.

"Boy. Boy, wake up and take me back to the bath. I need a drink."

"Alright Dag, yeah alright."

"I'll tell ye later of the plans to give ye the cauldron, It was not meant to slip out now. Give me a bottle, and I'll not trouble you again tonight."

Thoughts and memories not his own filled his head. But Louis pushed that barrow down the slopes. Thinking on what everyone had said. Elisabeth, and Dag. Even the silence he had carried weighed heavily, on a head too full for it's own good.

But it was only once he started his shift at the Inn, that he remembered the still, and what was in it. And he smiled thinking of giving it to the lady upstairs.

Elisabeth was overwhelmed with joy at the knowledge she'd obtained. Unable to take the stationary existence in the inn she had to go. She had to find him. What was she going to do if she found him?

Sinking back to her bed she pondered. It wasn't as if he would be going by the name Lugh. Or would he be as bold as Dagda?. Lets say she was lucky enough to come across him. What was she suppose to say? "Hi i'm Elisabeth, I've believed in you longer then i can remember, please choose me?" Slapping her forehead into her palms she sighed. What if he was nothing like she though he should be?. In all probability he was cocky and arrogant. After all he was a god.

Rising she began to pack her bag. She had already pinpointed a possible location for a piece of the treasure. Perhaps with any luck she would come across him randomly. Paying a boy to carry down her baggage she paid her bill at the Inn.

Taking her canteen she walked it to the bar. "Louis would you please fill my canteen with some of that wonderful ale you gave me the other night?" she questioned. Obligingly he did and she paid him walking out of the inn to catch a stage.

As they loaded her bags she looked back at the Inn. She would be back to this
inn, there wasn't any doubt. Yet she in all the places she traveled, it some how was harder to leave.

"Miss" the stage driver bellowed to her to get her attention. "Yes, ok" she replied climbing into the stage. The road was bumpy as it headed up the hill. Looking back as they finally reached the top she could see the town in what appeared to be a crater. It only took her a moment before it clicked in her mind. It wasn't a crater it was a cauldron. The best place to hide something is in plain sight.

Pulling out her map she began looking at it with a fresh eye. The rest of her trip to the next town she spend comparing the map with her book. Looking for any clues that could lead her. As the carriage pulled in front of The Inn of clover, Elisabeth was still emerged in her quest. It wasn't until her door opened she realized they had stopped.

The driver helped her down and unloaded her bags. Paying some boys they took her luggage inside and she was led to her room. The sun was going down its rays starting to dim over the horizon. Lighting a candle she took a break from her book and map and looked out the window. "Where art thou Lugh" she whispered into the breeze before going back to her map.