"The Cult of the Severed Head"

[dark_swordsman]

ooc: this is a closed thread for myself and Maid of Marvels. Comments and critiques welcome by PM.

It is based on a historically accurate Celtic cult of 'head-hunters'. The ancient Celts believed that the head was home to the soul; so to have your enemy's head was a very potent thing. This story follows the adventure of one such headhunter.

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The figure stood tall in the darkness of the glade and inhaled deeply, drawing himself up to his full height. The rainfall had stopped recently, leaving the earth and vegetation smelling raw and aromatic. It was dawn. Already, the greys and blues of the valley below him were fading to the muted greens and browns of trees and buildings. Across the hill to his left he could hear, rather than see the ocean, but he knew it was there. He listened to its whispers and understood its message of the coming weather. Today would be fair, with another summer storm in the evening. He smiled. It suited his purposes well.

Emerging silently from the cover of the tree line, the man started to pick his way down the hillside, away from the hamlet. The first lance of gold from the rising sun glinted from a long, heavy sword carried at his side. His was bare-chested save for a worn cloak, and his skin was pale. A dark mane hung down his neck, but aggressive points of greased, bleached, white hair adorned his forehead. His face was young but dour, his cheeks clean-shaven. A long moustache covered the edges of a tight-lipped mouth, denoting him as a minor nobleman, and dark blue breeches flapped around his ankles in the gentle breeze.

He carried a short spear across his shoulder, and an oval shield showing a stylised horse daubed in white. Many such young warriors would have looked dashing on such a splendid summer morning, but this figure stood out against the innocence of the landscape.

It was something to do with the severed head, hanging from his belt…

 

[Maid of Marvels]

The Chieftain is dead...

As the morning dawns, a druid arrives bearing the fey and everyone averts their eyes -- for if the aspenwood rod should catch their measure, their own deaths would be imminent.

Standing tall and proud among the people of their dun, his daughter, AthDara, begins to recite the caoine.

"Harken to hear sweet Eire weep
Oh brave warrior, your loss is woe!
Oh fair chieftain, your loss is woe!
Oh gods, what shall we do?
Gentle gods, all is woe, all is woe!

Taken from you, countrymen
From you, proud warriors
From you, Eire, this beloved son
Too soon! Too soon!!"

Her voice catches for a moment, but she recovers and continues.

"Derga, the fleet of foot,
Who here would claim to be fleeter?
Oh woe at the loss!

Derga, the swift of hand,
Who would claim a swifter hand here?
Oh woe, the loss!

Derga, the valliant warrior,
Who among you here is his equal?
Oh woe, the loss!

Derga the wise compassionate chieftain,
Who here can lead as he?
Oh woe, woe the loss.

Derga, the gentle husband, and steady father
Who shall guide your people now?

Derga, I woe the loss,
I grieve at your absence
Harken to hear sweet Eire weep
Derga, too soon are you gone
You have left us

Ochon!"

And so, with the setting of the sun on this, the seventh day, seven men will carry Derga in his chariot to his funeral bier. It is the end of Derga's time... And what a time it was!

 

[dark_swordsman]

Fionn watched from a distance as the sombre words drifted to him on the morning breeze. He hung his head for a moment in a silent prayer to the gods, and then continued to move away from the village, behind a large shoulder of rock. Here a fine mare was saddled and waiting, with the holy symbol of the Wheel, a reminder of the chariot of the sun, daubed on the leather. Two more heads hung from his bridle - one seemingly fresh and one little more than a skull.

Mounting the steed and un-tethering the reins from a tree, he ran a hand through his shock of hair, and trotted slowly north, around the rocky spine of the valley, so to approach the dun's gate by the time the sun was risen.