05-28-2022, 03:45 AM
(This post was last modified: 05-28-2022, 04:16 AM by Aiden Finnegan.)
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.
Mid-summer
Nuada’s Keep under the Hill of Tara
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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