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| The Tuatha De Cycle: The Stone of Destiny |
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Posted by: Aiden Finnegan - 05-28-2022, 03:45 AM - Forum: Past Lives
- Replies (1)
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The Second Year of the Sixth Age
Mid-summer
Nuada’s Keep under the Hill of Tara
![[Image: lugh_real.jpg?w=400&ssl=1]](https://i0.wp.com/thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/04/lugh_real.jpg?w=400&ssl=1)
Lugh Samildánach
Lugh Samildánach wiki page
“The Good Queen Britannia of Albion shares your troubles, High King Lugh – I cannot stress that enough, your Radiance,” the young diplomat went on again, bowing and scrapping for Lugh. The meeting had been going on for two hours and the only thing that it had accomplished was convincing Lugh that the ‘Good Queen’ did not, in fact, share his troubles.
The Fomorian menace had grown in force ever since Lugh had captured and slain their benefactor, High Prince Uscias of Findias; that had been over a year prior. The High Council had learned enough from the man, using less than savory methods. They had compelled him into telling all he knew of the Fomorians, what their goals had been, how he had assisted them, and so forth. The Court had been crestfallen to learn that a larger plot had been in place and Uscias had only played a small part. He knew nothing of import in the end, and so Lugh and the High Council had turned their attentions toward the foreign force and any potential threats of treachery within the Court’s ranks.
“Yes, you have said as much several times today. However, I cannot feel like you are deflecting. Give me a yes or no answer: will the Queen of Albion join us in a treaty of war to wipe out the Fomorians?” Lugh asked the man, his irritation thinly veiled behind a clenched jaw. High Druidess Tlachtga – whom Lugh had wrested into his service from his cousin, High Prince Lecan – coughed quietly into her closed fist. That had been their private signal, Lugh was pushing the limits of courtly manners. He closed his eyes and took a breath in as he awaited the diplomat’s response. He made a mental note to reign in his temper.
“No, your Radiance. The Good Queen Britannia cannot commit to such measures as of yet,” the diplomat finally gave a straight answer. It was the one Lugh had been waiting for.
The Court’s network of informants and spies had all reported similar accounts: the Fomorians had claimed territory in the northern forests of Albion, the island nation that lay across the Eastern Sea. Britannia had not squashed the barbarians, as Lugh had hoped, instead the Queen had found herself in a scandal with another foreign power – the Olympians.
Britannia had apparently long been pressured by the Olympians to arrange a union between the two nations; in this instance, a marriage had been asked of the Queen. Standard fair amongst the various world powers, Nuada had done the same in his day – although once the daughter in question had left the isles, little was heard from her or the Egyptian Gods of the Lower Kingdom. But then, the same reports had said that a Civil War had recently broken out amongst the various powers of the Lower Kingdom. Lugh had not expected further words from those foreign Gods since the missive had been delivered to him.
Lugh’s stomach turned in upon itself at the thought of the Fomorians. They posed the single largest threat to his rule, and by extension, the Tuatha de. It seemed as if war had begun to break out across the globe. The Lower Kingdom had devolved into countless fiefdoms ruled over by various Gods and Goddesses. And to the north of the Lower Kingdoms, the Olympians had recently found themselves in a war with the Titans – the founders and rulers of Hellas, the very kingdom that had birthed them. Vague reports from the Eastern Kingdoms had also whispered of war between the Brahman. It would only take a few lost battles to collapse the Four Great Cities of the Isles and Lugh knew it. The Fomorians had to be dealt with.
“Then perhaps your Good Queen would be open to another treaty,” Lugh went on, “As you have heard, my second wife, High Queen Nas, has sadly crossed over to the Otherworld. My Council has urged me to seek a new partner to temper my rule. I have heard tales of the Good Queen’s youngest daughter, Deichtine.”
Buach, Lugh’s first wife, had passed in the throes of childbirth – as did Lugh’s son. Theirs had been an arranged marriage, thanks to the High Council and its obsession with ‘ancient customs.’ Buach had not been of noble blood, indeed, she was the utter opposite. She could trace her line back to the founding of the Isles and her family had lived within its bounds since its inception. They were a humble, farming family that had produced their fair share of Dagda – although none strong enough to gain a place of privilege under the Hill. It had been enough for the High Council, who pronounced her family ‘of the land.’
The High King or Queen had to wed the land to secure their seat of power – and to the High Council, that meant bringing in commoners that knew nothing more than the Isles and her toils. Buach’s own mother had been the first in her family to gain any notoriety. Teach Mor, Buach’s mother, had gained the title of ‘The Veiled Hag of Beara’ due to her skills in contacting the Otherworld, Tír na nÓg.
Upon her death, she had been buried within an earthen mound southwest of the Hill. A temple had quickly been erected over the tomb, a cult having all but sprung up around her in the final years of her life. The locals called the place ‘The Hag’s Seat,’ and its sacrificial fires could be seen from the Hill on a clear night.
Nas had been offered up to Lugh as a bride while Buach’s corpse was still warm. He had agreed to the union while wallowing about in the inevitable grief that had taken him. He had actually grown to love Buach, but that had only ever come about after their daughter, Ebliu, had been born. Nas had proved a to be a good woman, she and Ebliu had gotten along fabulously. Lugh did not love her from the start, much like Buach, but he could see things growing in that direction.
Lugh had gotten Nas with child after three months. In a cruel twist of fate, Nas had also died in childbirth – as had their son. The loss of another wife and son had served as the catalyst to Lugh’s numbing. He had been touchy as of late – as his inner circle would be quick to tell you. Most had stayed away from him since the numbness had taken hold, as had a particularly negative outlook on life. Lugh had started to think himself cursed.
“That is a most unexpected offer, your Grace,” the diplomat blanched before bowing deeply in turn, “I am sure the Good Queen Britannia will take her time in deliberating it in earnest.”
Lugh nodded, “Yes, I am sure. The High Council of the Hill of Tara will contact you with our proposed terms.”
The diplomat bowed again, the trident and shield insignia on his chest gleaming in the light of the glowbulbs. He bowed again, deeper and intoning, “If my High King allows it, I shall retreat to mine Good Queen and deliver your missive.”
Lugh inclined his head and held up his dominant hand – his thumb and his middle and index finger held up while the other two pointed down – responding to the diplomat in the ancient forms, “And so shall ye will go forth. Return to me naught till your Good Queen can say yay or nay to mine query.”
The diplomat turned on his heel and marched out of the Great Hall. Semias and Morfessa had stepped down from their respective dais’ and came to meet Lugh at the high seat. He dropped the mask for those two – they had earned it. These two High Princes, of Murias and Failias respectively, had stood beside him from the start. Each Dagda had a good head upon their shoulders to boot.
“Well played, your Radiance,” Morfessa bobbed a curtsy in her filmy gown of salmon pink sateen and turquoise silks, “A unification of the Isles – both East and West – will surely cause the Olympians and Titans to think twice.”
“I think they are looking in upon themselves,” Lugh answered, “But nonetheless, I agree. I’ve seen other powers absorb weaker nations and conscript their Dagda and mundane warriors.”
“It would take less than a year to render us unfit should the Fomorians land in force upon our shores,” Morfessa nodded along, her ideas not without merit.
“Where is my cousin?” Lugh asked – changing the subject entirely.
“Last I spoke with Lecan, he informed me that he would be dealing with the next Fomorian incursion personally,” Morfessa announced at once.
“Your Radiance, with all due respect, I think it pertinent to backtrack. I think it unwise to marry so soon,” Semias spoke up as she smoothed her silken skirts of bronze.
“If I don’t move first, the High Council will, Semias,” Lugh admitted quietly, “I’d rather form treaties before they have had their arguments heard.”
“Isn’t that the point of the representatives?” Semias asked quickly.
“And you see the squabbling they engage in. It would be another two years’ time before they agreed on the motion. The High King’s marriage – after the first – is and will always be a political affair. Let me try to make my own decisions while I can,” Lugh exhaled as he extracted a pipe from his pocket. Blue smoke rings were quickly being thrown up from his mouth – thanks to Abcan’s endless tutelage.
“A masterful stroke if I ever saw one,” Morfessa kept on with the honeyed words, “The Council will have no choice but to bow to the whims of the High Rulers.”
Lugh fought a sneer.
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| Lemosyne |
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Posted by: Thalia - 05-20-2022, 08:42 PM - Forum: Place for Dreams
- Replies (1)
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Sometimes she arose in the void, a half-place, unknowing and afraid.
Or maybe it had always been this way, and now she only remembered it more often.
“Jon?” She twisted to the call of old ghosts, seeking a foothold on where she was. On who she was. Around her the world swirled all its colours together like a cruel trick, and he was known for them (once?). Her surroundings dizzied her, a nauseous storm, leaching into a darkness that cloyed until it swept like a hand across her shoulder, turning her about. Presence lingered in her peripheral, unseen. A whispered voice, acid sharp, a puncture to the heart: “It was easy,” it said; smooth, feminine, and beautifully cruel. “To leave you.”
She did not listen. Refused to.
Her hand clenched a fist, then pressed tight to her chest; a lid, a lock, a plea. Eyes closed, afraid afraid afraid of that pulling feeling, like life and soul were naught but a tightly coiled thread, and one violent yank was all it might take to become nothing. Dream, memory, less than.
Gone.
She reached out wild and desperate, soul tossed about like a storm-wrecked ship seeking safe harbour, until when she next swiped tears from her cheeks the world had finally stilled. She blinked, no longer seeing an empty ‘scape of nothing, but the heavy shadows of deep underground. Her skin was cold beneath her pale garments, and colder where her palms patted the cool metal beneath her. She rested within a giant iron fetter, so large it curved around her body like a babe’s cradle. It should have been a nightmare. But she was not sure even Mara’s pets ever came here.
Her breathing stilled, but not her sense of disquiet. This was wrong, and she could not place the tip of her finger as to why, but it permeated until she trembled.
Beside her something moved, alive; something slow, and unfathomably large. More than one. Soft clinks stuttered in the silence, and her perch swung lazily in the air. A fetid lizard stink filled her nose and mouth as coiling bodies moved and shifted amidst their chains. Then, the scorched carrion-heat of a soft sighing breath, and a return to peace; the creatures were unperturbed by her intrusion, because they were used to it. Her fingers found the edges of a scale in the dark. Comfort and mystery.
“Do you dream?” she whispered.
If they did, perhaps it was somewhere else their souls fled. A constellation of worlds might lie behind those stone eyelids, for all she knew. They did not speak of it.
Her eyes closed, too. Content.
She visited because no one else ever did. If her grandmother ever troubled herself with dreams, it was not to look upon that which she presided over in the waking world. No one else would even dare, except perhaps Him, and never for this reason.
The thought suddenly left her mouth dry, and she wasn’t sure why. Her hands rose to press against the contours of her own face, panic beginning to beat again, but it was just a face. Seeking calm, she waded memory for her name. A touchstone. An anchor. But the one that came felt jagged on her tongue. Startled, her eyes flared wide.
The world lurched again, and settled again, and she curled into herself, barely daring to look.
Had it been a memory, or a dream? She did not know. It lingered like a taste of the Tiber waters that Noctua had decried. Not because it had felt bad, but because the peace found had not been a memory of hers. Old things surfaced from time to time; things she knew that she shouldn’t know; an awareness of others that transcended flesh and blood shells and recognised something older. But such things drifted away just as quickly. They never consumed like that, as fresh of feeling as if they had happened yesterday.
“My name is Nimeda.” She spoke the name into her knees, body curled tight. And prayed that it was true.
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| Upgraded |
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Posted by: Nox - 05-10-2022, 02:16 PM - Forum: General Discussion
- Replies (2)
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I updated our forums.
I was hoping to upgrade the server but it's causing too many issues.
If you see any issues let me know. I know the switcher needs a bit of some css updates so I'll do that when I get a chance let me know if there is anything else.
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| Noctivagant |
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Posted by: Patricus I - 04-24-2022, 11:18 PM - Forum: Place for Dreams
- Replies (24)
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His first thought was about the absence of fatigue. In that very revelation, Philip knew he was dreaming. He had been bone-weary tired when his head found its way to a pillow. That the physical constraint of body and mind resisted translation to his new destination was as dead a giveaway as anything else. Though now that he shielded his eyes from the brightness of a sunless sky, he realized that he was surrounded by nothing but sand. Yellow, endless dunes made a wave of the horizon. For reasons he did not bother to dissect, a vast desert had been the place of his spawning. It was annoying more than anything, foot sinking into the sand as he tried to turn about despite the athletic-cut Ascis. Cliffs made a mountain behind him. In their façade were carved shapes undoubtedly etched by human hand. Wherever he was, he was certain it was about as far away from Catholicism as possible.
The cliffs were looming in what felt like fewer steps than should have been possible. Yet he was so accustomed to the oddity of dreams that gave it no additional thought. Why was he here? Was this the manifestation of his subconscious or was this by sophisticated design? He thrust his hands in the pockets of a La Perla cashmere tracksuit, bright white as his papal robes. The cashmere was smooth as butter, but despite the environment, he wasn’t hot. Though when he ducked into the shade of a doorway, a coolness washed his face.
A tunnel burrowed into the rock. The other worldly light extended into the passage, though it was barely enough to see. Carvings were etched into the walls, and despite the many languages he could read and write, the glyphs were unknown to him. A 5,200 year old tablet of pictographs was the oldest writing on record, but it was a crude form of proto-cuneiform. The ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs dating to the 5th Dynasty would fit in the setting of this dream, but the shapes on the walls were far less pictoral and more script-like. They had the scratching reminiscent of cuneiform of ancient Iraq but more elegant. He didn’t claim to read such worthless nonsense, his knowledge was honed upon the languages that built the church, but he knew enough to recognize that this writing was intelligent, sophisticated, and complex.
They were probably a figment of his imagination, he finally decided and continued onward. The tunnel turned to stairs soon after with just enough light to avoid spraining an ankle. At the bottom there was a fresh scent on the air and for the first time there was a sound. He followed an echo of drips to their source, puzzled.
At some point in the journey, the passageway or ancient temple – whatever it was – transformed into a more natural cave structure. So much so that he was careful to avoid smearing mud on his suit. A pool of cave water identified the source of the dripping, and Philip was about to carry on until he saw a glint beneath the surface. At first, he thought it was another key, which would explain the absurdity of this dream. He leaned over the incredibly still water, squinting to discern what was submerged when an unexplained ripple disturbed the surface. He could almost see the shape of it when he turned his face slightly, but the light was insufficient. He could get in the water, he thought, and swim down to it.
An unease touched his brow. There was no one here to explain the hesitation, and ultimately his curiosity stole the better of his senses. It was a dream anyway and he typically tried to not fight the pull of dreams.
He slipped into the water. The chill wasn’t unpleasant but nor was it relaxing. His feet could touch the bottom, but after a few steps they lost the shelf. He was about to gasp a lungful of air and submerge when bubbles erupted ahead of him. Likely from the disturbance of silt, he thought, and slipped under the water.
The dark was deeper beneath, but the glint of something vaguely metallic led his way. He reached out to snatch the curious item, wincing when he found it was sharp to the hand. Surely it had cut him, he thought, as he pulled it toward himself and started to push upward.
Something grabbed his foot and a hard jerk pulled down. He gasped a mouthful of water and kicked at it, but the harder he fought, the lower he was dragged.
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| Emergence |
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Posted by: Ascendancy - 04-23-2022, 02:20 AM - Forum: Underground city
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Nikolai was absconded by military security forces as soon as he reconnected with the surface. Later he would receive a report detailing how far into the undercity they traversed and it would astound him. To think that there was so much subterranean world under the city streets was almost inconceivable. Even more astounding, more existed. Jay and Nox would find out how far the rabbit hole went. The call to go with them pulled at Nik with such ferocity that he seriously considered returning more than once. Ultimately, responsibility and duty carried him to fresh air, but it wasn’t a sweet emergence.
The ride back to the Kremlin wasn’t one of stealth. After the appropriate transfer to a secure vehicle, he was ferried to the fortress in his usual standard. He checked a communications and updates on high priority items, but he refused all personal interactions other than who else was in the car with him.
Marcos and Allan were transferred back to the Kremlin in the same vehicle as the Ascendancy. It had little to do with the desire to debrief what just occurred, and more about the practicality of stealth. His vehicle was impenetrable to scans and hacks. There couldn’t be a hint of their involvement in the undercity.
Except the activity hadn’t gone unnoticed.
It seemed that some undercity denizens had escaped the fire, but not everyone survived. The expulsion of hundreds of homeless into the surface had attracted a lot of media attention. Reports of violence and fires sweeping the homeless camps underground led to panic and worry. It was nothing compared to the chaos that would have erupted had the monsters of below followed, but it wasn’t the kind of PR that Nikolai liked.
Take care of it, he responded, anticipating that this attention be diverted swiftly. Trouble among the homeless was usually easy to dismiss in a city like theirs.
The Kremlin grounds were secured from prying eyes. Not so much as a secretary was allowed to peer out the window while Ascendancy, Marcus and Allan were transferred from the vehicles and into the safety of the building proper. He wanted to clean up as soon as possible, and only distant passerbys even glimpsed that the Ascendancy was back on the grounds. Orders were left with Allan to debrief the rest of the Rods and work out a defense program for future non-human threats.
He left Marcus with instructions too. “I want you to set up an analysis of our channeler intelligence and registries for anyone who could potentially combine channeling with the science of genetic engineering. We need to carefully monitor their activities. I don’t want a rogue channeler accidentally creating an entire new species.”
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| The God Wars |
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Posted by: Aiden Finnegan - 03-19-2022, 03:43 AM - Forum: General Discussion
- Replies (7)
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Some of you may or may not have noticed that I've started telling the story of Lugh. His story will span the 5th and 6th Age; it will largely be contained to the present-day regions of Ireland and Great Britain. If anyone is interested in having a 5th or 6th age incarnation taking an excursion to the Erie Isles and beyond, Lugh would certainly welcome it. Shoot me your ideas via PM or this thread.
If no one is interested, I hope you guys at least enjoy reading this God's history.
(As a side note: Assassin's Creed: Valhalla definitely inspired the course of this storyline.)
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| The Tuatha De Cycle: The Spear of Assal |
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Posted by: Aiden Finnegan - 03-17-2022, 03:29 AM - Forum: Past Lives
- Replies (23)
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The Last Year of the Fifth Age
Late Spring
The Grand City of Gorias in the Northern Isles of Erie
![[Image: lugh_real.jpg]](https://arkanatheory.files.wordpress.com/2022/03/lugh_real.jpg)
Lugh Samildánach's Bio
The Spear of Lugh
Gorias, The First Great City
Lugh Samildánach, newly crowned King of the Tuatha De, stood there staring at a sharp chunk of golden metal. He wore nothing more than fine garments and his characteristic smirk. It was easy to be taken in by that smirk – at least that’s we had always been told. It had certainly served him well as he fought through the various political storms that had tried to bar him from the crown he now wore.
Esras, the Master Blacksmith of Gorias, sat a few paces off at a low, lacquered table counting out a pile of silver marks – completely ignoring the two gargantuan sacks of the half-marks, lead and zinc. His white hair all but danced about as he shook his head to the rhythmic murmuring of his counting. The man had a reputation for being shrewd, but surely even he could not balk at the modest fortune Lugh had poured onto his lap. Oh, it was apparent that Lugh's request was unreasonable for a man of Esras' talents - still, Lugh knew that the man could help him get what he had wanted.
“This is simply not fine enough, Esras,” Lugh said with an air of finality, tossing the spearhead over his shoulder to Esras. The blacksmith snapped out of his counting and fumbled to grab the spearhead without cutting himself. Lugh went over to the low table and pulled out a silken pouch from his side-bag. Esras began to splutter as Lugh started to push the piles of marks into the pouch.
“My King, but I have labored over this for a fortnight!?” Esras exclaimed as he tried to push the spearhead back into Lugh’s hands. The King finished taking back the marks and backed away without taking the weapon in hand.
“As your King, my judgement is final. This is made of pure gold. Do you honestly expect me to go to battle with this?” Lugh spat back – still wearing that smirk.
“But you asked for a badge of office? What is that if not ceremonial?” Esras all but begged for Lugh to take the thing.
“Oh, do not misunderstand me, Esras – this is fine work,” Lugh said smoothly as he waved his right hand over the glimmering spearhead, “But it cannot serve me. Do you know how many assassination attempts I have survived?”
Esras’ mouth moved, searching for the words, but Lugh rolled right over him, “Seven. Seven attempts on my life, Esras. I need both form and function. If you cannot come up with something that meets my needs, I shall have to simply look elsewhere. I hear that old Kerr’gan is taking on new commissions…”
“No! My King! No! Old Kerr’gan is dishonest and knows not a hammer from an anvil! He would sooner fashion you a tin spear wrapped in gold leaf! Trust me on this matter, my King,” Esras went on, his hands waving about in soothing gestures. Lugh stifled a laugh at the frantic manner in which Esras devolved. The citizens of Gorias were all too easy to manipulate. Once, they had been at the epicenter of technological advancement - but then war and strife had begun to break out across the globe. Powerful beings had begun to seize power from the local governments. Over the course of the last few generations, most countries had begun to devolve into fractured kingdoms - each ruled over by a singular God-King or God-Queen.
Due to the petty wars and squabblings over territory, the Isles of Erie were largely reduced to half-hazard remnants of their former selves held together by Standing Flows and the sheer might of their God-like Warlords. Despite the circumstances, Lugh had thought himself above the rest of the Warlords of the Isles. He had believed in an Egalitarian Meritocracy, much like the ones found in old mythologies. Many didn't believe such a system was possible - but just as many wished it were, and those that had wished for it found themselves employed by Lugh. Esras, although employed by him, bore no noble ideals. He only cared for marks.
“I want Heartstone, Esras,” Lugh said simply.
The blacksmith’s eyes widened.
“I know you’ve been selling it on the side – therefore you have a means to procure or produce it,” Lugh said before meeting Esras’ eyes. The methods of creating the mythic material were common knowledge, but not many citizens of the Erie Isles possessed the skill to actually produce it. Due to trade embargos, it was all but impossible to find among the seven islands. Esras was a well-known dealer on the black market; that had been the only reason Lugh had approached him, court etiquette or not.
Esras betrayed himself as he began to wring his hands, looking down and away from Lugh, “For that, you have underpaid.”
Lugh let his eyebrows rise despite himself, “Oh?”
“The thing of which you speak… I have to import certain… talents… And so the rate is much higher.”
“How high?” Lugh asked with narrowed eyes.
Esras reached for a slip of paper and an ink pen, scribbling furiously. He folded the scrap and handed it over to Lugh, still avoiding eye contact.
“Five hundred thousand platinum marks!?” Lugh exclaimed.
Esras nodded, plucking at the skirts of his long robes. The man seemed to be trying to look anywhere but at Lugh.
“Surely you must be joking, Esras. Why, this would be more than would be demanded if the Formorians took me or the High Council for ransom!” Lugh let his smirk slip as his eyebrows cocked.
“Heartstone. Fairy fire. Unbreakable. Sa’angreal,” Esras muttered in a mocking voice before turning to meet Lugh’s stare, “I am no God, my King. The things you ask are beyond my skill. I have my own methods, but if you cannot pay my sources, you will have to find and kidnap one who can perform such feats.”
Lugh’s brow rose and his tone sweetened, “My what a curious choice of phrase.”
Esras stiffened.
“Kidnap. Not find. Kidnap. You know someone that could do what I want, don’t you Esras?” Lugh said with a sickly-sweet smile.
“Yes…” Esras breathed, “Of course, my King.”
Lugh embraced the Power and wove filaments of Light across the ground. A miniature map of the Isles of Erie seemingly rose from the floor. Esras swore under his breath as Lugh took a step closer to the blacksmith.
“Where are they, Master Esras?”
The blacksmith looked up at his King and swallowed hard. He pointed a finger to the north-most island that appeared on the illusory map and his King nodded with satisfaction. He spun away from the blacksmith, striding along confidently to the front door.
“I liked your design, Master Esras,” Lugh called over his shoulder, “You better hope this contact of yours can transform it into Heartstone. If they can – I’ll require a haft. If they can’t… Well, be ready.”
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| Beware the Wolfkin |
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Posted by: Siobhan West - 03-12-2022, 05:34 AM - Forum: Greater Moscow
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“The human flesh will not feast upon your excellence,” Ebony sent to Siobhan.
“She is correct. I have seen what the North American continent has to say. It is best if you find Aiden,” Ivory sent to Siobhan as he shoved his face into a plater of raw chicken legs.
Siobhan had not seen Aiden since Ebony had tracked him to that Russian cop’s mansion. It had been apparent that Aiden could handle himself and – at the time – Siobhan had no honest need of him. But now?
Something had been tracking Siobhan and her pack – not that they had been hiding – and it had actually succeeded in slaying a few of her packmates. The ‘seven dwarves,’ as Siobhan called the wolves, now totaled four.
Ebony, Ivory, Doxx, and Snappy.
That was all that had remained of the original seven.
The tour had been canceled since the three passings. Siobhan could not perform under such duress that had been caused by the assassinations of her friends.
Since the killing of Happy, Siobhan and the three pups resolved to lay in wait for the murderer of their kin.
Unfortunately, Siobhan had nothing but her wits and a tenuous agreement with four wolves.
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![[Image: 7a33a231806ff98fed0360cdbc4801e8.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/7a33a231806ff98fed0360cdbc4801e8.jpg)
