Celtichugs
Sergeant Knight at Arms
"Truth in the heart." "Strength in the arm." "Honesty in speech." The Celtic Code of Chivalry, imposed by the Druids, according to St. Patrick We are the Fir Áraig, litterally "Men of Bond", or Oath. We are arachta, oath-friends, bound to each other and our pay master by the strength of our oath and bond, our word is true as is our claidh, our blades. We are cró, we are diberg, we are in fian. Warband and comnáma to the highest bidder, to whom we pledge our solid uist, our oath. We welcome unto our fold any who would accept the oath in bondage and the trials that accompany the Fir Áraig - Goidíl, Gall-Goidíl, Albannaich and Lochlannach, both Dubgaill and Finngaill, and we question not our brave díbergachta's beliefs - be him Christian or of the geinti, the heathens. Our banner is the Finn Fíadh, the White Stag, a noble creature woven deep into the lore of our ancestors. A creature as noble and gallant as any found. It is the animal of the aes sídhe, the fairy folk, and as such we treat it with apprieciation and respect befitting of such an auspicious beast. Our long fhada, vessal, is In Muirbran, the Sea-Raven, and her prow has carved paths from Eriu through the Irish Sea to the Suðreyar and the Norðreyjar where our oath and service has been bought by toísech, jarl and rí alike. Through these lord's and their battles our, dear, Fir Áraig have been coined as "In Gráscar", "The Rabble", but we embrace this epithet with pride and without shame! We are the Fir Áraig, "Men of Bond", and our oath is true.
The Battle of Éafanheall This is the tale from the eyes of Ualraig as an actual character. The tale is more of less based on the Third Round of the Éafanheall event, with some degree of tweeking. It is far from finished and is very much a WIP.
It began, the war-thunder. The Vikingr's ears were filled with the rour and rythmic beatings as the Engle slammed weapon upon sheild and any space of of the tall pallisade they could find. Ualraig in Dúr rested his sheild by his foot and drew a deep breath as he gazed at the impressive Éafanheall settlement, he dondered his gaze from one tower to the next. Ualraig pushed the flat of his hand against his thigh to steady it, as if he were not griped by nerves enough he had been given charge of the aðrir by the Jarl - Thorkell Erlingar. The thunder and insults of the Engle was peirced suddenly by the low and deep call of a horn and his perifery was distracted savagley by the swift glare of white - Erlingar's flag was on the move. Ualraig looked about his men, some he knew like his own warband Fir Áraig, and those he did not like those of the Aðrir. Upon finding Fintan in Cráibdech he noded and no words needed to be spoke. Fintan placed his sheild in Cormag in Garbhan's hand and strolled infront of us, his hands swiftly outlined the Holy Trinity and his mouth echoed a quiet prayer before falling on one knee to place soil upon his tounge. Some in the warband repeated the sign of the cross, most though grasped their amulets of Mjölnir. Ualraig allowed Fintan to gather his equipment then swept an arm forward. "Keep close! Sheilds up!" He called over his shoulder before the jolting thud of an arrow throw itself into his sheild. Ualraig slowed his step and allowed the warband to continue. "Where is my banner-man?" Searched for the man chosen to bare the warband's rags, a man who called himself only "The Hermit". Seeing him Ualraig wrapped a hand around The Hermit's arm. "Stay with me! Keep the cloth up!" Looking over the rim of the sheild that now formed his horizon he saw the walls of Éafanheall and noted the warband's pace was quicker than he had expected. Ualraig thrust an arm towards the ladders towhich men flocked to raise them against the impressive pallisade before them, the rest throw their bodies against the wall. He strafed against the wall before coming to the warband's bowman, a man who's breath and hair reaked of a sweet smelling odour - a pouch of exotic leaves hung from his belt. "Keep their heads down!" He called to be heard over the din of the battle-thunder. The sheild-bashing was now accompanied hand-in-hand with insults Ualraig could not understand. Fintan and Cormag held sheilds over Sumarliðr Ljótsson who unwisely chosen to use a two-handed-axe alone, though in one hand the Norse-Gael fondled a stone at which a brow quirked eye into Ualraig's brow. With a deep groan the ladders were raised, dust and splinters of wood fell atop the warband. This would be far from easy, Ualraig thought, his and his warband's task was to get atop this section of the pallisade. To the centre of the wall lay the gates at which the warband of Jarl Bjorn and others, would throw themselves at untill the timbers fell. Further down still, was the third attack on the walls. The plan was simple but it was not easy with such defenders, feirce fighting-men were the Engle. "Tiosech!" Cried a voice. "Toisech Ualraig!" "Jarl Ualraig!" cried another. Ualraig rallied himself from his thoughts and saw Ruaidrí na Luimneach standing at the foot of the ladder. "The gates are down and Jarl Thorkell is in the frey! Climb the ladder!" He looked to and fro before seeing he was the only man not yet on the ladder, even The Hermit was half way up the rungs. At the top of the ladders fought Bludgar whose sheild was thrown violently into the face of an enemy, while on the other ladder stood Jorund whose cloak whipped in the gust. Sumarliðr Ljótsson had already found footing atop the walls, his feet parted each side of a lifeless body. Before he was aware Ualraig planted a boot onto the walls and took stock of the situation. The defenders that had been fighting on this section of pallisade snarled and threw insults over their sheilds as we closed on them. The warband was cautious, there are few things in battle more dangerous than trapped and desperate men. "Throw down your weapons!" One of Ualraig's men called. "Throw them down and lower your sheilds!" "Never!" Replied a voice in accented Norse. There was no time to reply as the defenders throw themselves against the Vikingr, the stench of their breath clung heavily to Ualraig's nose as he pushed on. It was a quick affair, with the defenders falling quickly but no less bravely. He drew himself up and looked around, taking note of the large enclosure of Éafanheall allowing his men a moment of respite, a second wind would be needed he thought as he gazed at the winding path that led up a steep slope to the Engle cheif's longhouse. It began, the war-thunder. The Engle's had withdrawn to the top of the slop and had began their war-thunder once again. The Vikingr gathered at the bottom of the slope and rallied themselves for the tough upward struggle. Ualraig could see the centre of the foe-men's line was made up of sheild's baring a green cross upon a white feild, they seemed the most battle-ready. Jarl Thorkell Erlingar stood at the front of our lines and adressed the Vikingr host, though what he said could be hardly heared by Fir Áraig or the Aðrir for they stood to the rear of the fighting-host. "What is so important that he needs to say it now? I would rather leave talking to the poets rather than give the Sasanaich time to recover!" Said Cormag in Irish, his Toisech shrugged. Jarl Bjorn's warband swept forward their red sheilds tightly locked as they approached the enemy waiting atop the hill. The rest of the host follow suit, Jarl Thorkell Erlingar in the centre with Fir Áraig and the Aðrir to the rear. Some men's sheild's hung limply at their side, tired from the fighting, their legs heavy as they trudged up the hill. With no warning the Engle broke formation and turned to run, they fell from sight as they disopeared over the brow of the hill. At the top of the hill lay a large area of flat ground where large buildings of wood had been built. Men were cautious, wary of ambush and hidden dangers, but before them lay the Engle's plan, a bridge. The bridge was narrow and no barrier was there to stop any who strayed too far left or right, they would funnel us in, whence our numbers would counter for little. Tired and wishing to see battle's end, the Vikingr host rushed on, over the bridge and threw themselves upon the defenders. There savage fighting occured, those at the back pushed on and the Engle would have to push against the enitre wait of the Vikingr host. Foe-men and ally fell, beaten down and then savagley trampled beneathe the feet of his comrades. The strench of sweat and musck filled the nostrils, the clash of weapons and sheilds and the cries of the desperate and the dying rang loudly. The press of tightly packed bodies crushing those infront and below, making some men to be gripped by fear and panic. The breath of men being driven out of their chest as they are urged by their comrades to push on. That push was grow less and less untill the wall of the Engle's sheilds broke and the Vikingr swept through like water. The defenders fled before the oncoming attackers, flying up the procarious steps that led of the longhouse. There, before the doors of Éafanheall's longhouse, above which flew a flag of twin steeds, was the final death-blow given to the brave defenders of Éafanheall. "The Manx Normans" A more immersive, historical and RP'ish take upon the Fir Áraig Vs Le Armée Du Batard clan match.
In 1920 a group of Archaeologists funded by the Historic Building and Monuments Commission for England discovered a Irish missionary convent on the Isle of Man, less than 10 miles North of Douglas. Within the area of this convent was the usual sights and findings associated with a Celtic Christian site and with the usual influances from the Norse-Gaelic peoples of the area. Only one item was found to be unusual. A scripture written in Old Irish and Gaelic was found tattered and forgotten, however written in the margin, crammed in and only just readable was "The Normanz have left. 1065" Curiousity arose as common themes were found in many more findings around the site hinting to the existance of atleast a small group of Normanz on the Isle of Man. With no other resources or findings with any other suggestion to the presence of none-natives on the Isle, the project was soon dropped. In 1983 when a new exavation project was made for the "identification and preservation of the Manx Runestones" a curious discovery was made. A Norman-style helm was found, beside of which sat the weak remains of a kite sheild. Not a day later the same group discovered the remains of ten bodies, from further investigation it was noted that these ten males died from wounds suffered in conflict. Amongst the Norman helm and sheild, were swords used by warriors and armies on the continent, not within the Gaelic and Norse-Gaelic world, as well as the more common finds from battles from this part of the world. The excavation-leader brought his evidence to historians at many Universities throughout England and Scotland, uncluding Cambridge and the University of Edinburgh. Perplexed and confused by the findings, the historians and other officials came to radical conclusions. That a Norman trade ship had been blown well off course. That a Norse-Gael longship held Norman captives who had found a chance to escape, though this was quickly put aside with the presance of Norman war-gear. Some thought that it may have been a Norman scout-ship of sorts used in early September in 1066 as a prelimerie investigation of England's North-Western shores before the Norman Invasion. The only conclusion that can be made is that these so called "Manx Normans" did not flee the Isle, instead finding their doom upon the Isle of Man. However, with no further evidance to support any claims, the evidence was soon put aside and forgotten about my historian and archeologists alike. Poems by Fintan the Pious Oh brothers, look at that beautiful village
It would be real shame somebody to loot it and pillage I see how you stand valiantly in our boats So ready your wills, chainmails, helmets and shouts Odin has sent his blessing and look how fly the ravens We will bring glory and honor to his name, Oh pity the cravens We will embrace gladly the thrill of battle and gore Ready we shall be for the battle-maidens who we so adore Our foes shall be send to their forgotten ancestors And we shall drink, dine and feast wiht our creators This is the song of our beloved, dear battles so you wretched maids; get back to your kettles This is the tale of the battled, full grown men, greybeards and beardless boys in the warriors den ----------------------------------------- In a grim late-summer morning The boats are filled with husbands With sons, leaving the women mourning Beside the sea, which holds them with caring hands Their lives are poor, pitiful and short Men must find the honor in the foreign land So they ready the ships to leave the port Glory they shall find in bloodied salty sand Their dreams shall be fed to carrion birds Only ancestors and unborn sons shall remember those When Death guides them like earthly herds Through the fiery plains where smoke burns the nose Songs will be made about their deeds to glorify To justify their deaths so living can sleep in peace Not dreaming about the past where the lie Became the truth, the singing bird the autumn leaves The gods see the bravery of mortal men And the grim destiny they brought upon themselves And still the gods play against the Amen Moving their pieces, until they become fictional like elves And the men die to honor dying gods But the new world will remember them as legends Greeting the past ghosts with modest nods And still they bow their heads to reach the heavens --------------------------------------------------- At the eve of the battle-nights They sang the chant to the heights Of the gods and northern lights And so they called the help to come But the answer was just to carry on And fight till the deed was done And the bodies were filled with holes And so left the freed valiant souls Without coming back to their waiting homes And so weave the Norns At their well in the valley of thorns Till the bulls lose their horns And mighty dead shall rise And with their own eyes They see; it was nothing but lies ---------------------------------------- I used to ride with my friend Willie Until the weather got so chilly That his ponys hoofs got frozen And he was not chosen To be leader the next round Instead we got some wild hound To lead us to victory and glory And he surely wasn't riding a pony ------------------------------- I once met a certain grizzled officer And I didn't need to address him as her His name was Mr. Hotpants And he had very soft hands When he picked the manly flower And put it to his blond hair He had travelled far and wide And he never had to hide As he was so f*cking manly That he once beat some Stanley I once heard that Chuck Norris Has a poster of a man, BoB that is It was just of his beard And that's only when I heard How frikkin' epic Hotpants is I felt that I should be called ms. One part of him Makes me real sick It can get very thick It really needs a lick It can't sustain a kick It's the dream of every chick We shouldn't refer it as a "stick" And some people call it as *ick So that was just a epic tale Of a man who hugs Saxton Hale And who shoot fire Out of his chesthair -------------------------------- In the summer morning I said to my darling To look at the she-hare To look at it's fiery hair It's the sign that somewhere near There's something we can't yet hear It's the danger we all should fear It's the killer of all fun The grim hunter of joy It's the cloak of the sun Master of every ploy Alone shall it be In it's eternal misery And so shall the pale mare ride And there's no place to hide So darling, let's wait it to come And all sorrow shall be gone He's the friend we all know And who we wish never to meet He's no mans sole foe As long as the heart has a beat Let's greet him with glee So we all shall to see The pale eternal grin Which knows all our sin ---------------------- Oh hear me brothers Why are we fighting eachother? What's the point in this slaughter Gold has no meaning What's wrong with your hearing? Let's live to honor some other thing Let's dethrone these false kings Till the whole world sings For the glory of coming springs So lay down your arm So there will be no more harm And we can return to our family farm I see you don't understand In the way you cut your kins hand And there's no mind for me to command The blood shall be shed We all shall lose the head Till there's no more death ------------------------------- And so shall the brave man weep When the wound is cut deep How are we supposed to keep From falling to eternal sleep The climb is so steep It's only one tiny leap From light to darkness deep Pronounciation Guide. Fir Áraig - [Feer Aw-raych, (-ch like Loch)] Old Irish, "Men of Bond".
Fer Áraig - [Feer Aw-raych], Old Irish, "Man of Bond" - the denonym used by the Fir Áraig. Arachta - [Aw-rock-tuh] Old Irish, oath-friends. Claidh - [Klade] Old Irish, sword, blade. Cró - [Crow] Old Irish, mercenary bodyguards. Diberg - [dee-bare-guh]Old Irish, A small semi-independant warband. In Fian - [In fin]Old Irish, A small wandering warband. More used to denote to the famous Fianna in Irish Mythology. Comnáma - [Kom-nah-mah]Old Irish, interchangabley - allies, mercenaries or vassals. Uist - [Oo-eest]Old Irish, an oath. Lochlannaich - [Loch-lann-aich] Old Irish, "Fjord-dwellers", the Vikingr. Often used with dub meaning black or finn meaning white infront of Lochlannaich to differentiate between the Norse and Danes respectively. This word is also attested to mean Scandanavians from geographical Scotland. Also used is Dubgaill for the Danes and Finngaill for Norse. Laithlinn - [Leeth-lin] Old Irish, Scandanavian Scotland. Dibergachta- [Dee-bare-guk-tuh]Old Irish, members of a diberga (Warband). Geinti - [geen-tuh]Old Irish, Vikings of Ireland before they adopted Christianity, or any heathen. Finn Fíadh - [Fin Fee-a] Old Irish, literally "White Wild", the banner of the Fir Áraig, in this case meaning the "White Stag". Fiadh in Scottish and Irish mythology was the Otherworld were the Spirit of Wild creatures - namely Deer - came from. Also, were Elves and Fairies dwelt. In Irish and Highland mythology, Deer were led by a bean sí ([Ba-en Shee]) a female spirit considered a bringer of death or messages from the Otherworld. Brythonic Celts (Both Wales and Scotland, including England) had similar dieties. Ancient Conitnental Celts, such as the "Gauls" believed in Cernunnos, known as the "Horned One", bore Deer antlers on his head. In Muirbran - [In Mew-er-brah-N]Old Irish, 'The Sea-Raven' the longboat of Fir Áraig. Ériu - [E-r-u] Old Irish, for the Isle of Ireland - from the matron Godess of Ireland. Suðreyjar - [Soother-a-u-yar] Old Norse, 'Southern Isles', the Hebridies in oposed to the Northern Isles. Norðreyjar - [Norther-a-u-yar] Old Norse, 'Northern Isles - Orkney and Shetland, who's earldom controlled Northern Scotland. Toísech- [twee-sek] Old Irish, "comander" or "cheif". Jarl - [Yarl] Old Norse, 'cheiftan' Rí - [Ree] Old Irish, a King. In Gráscar - [Grah-sker] Old Irish, a rabble - often used for ill deciplined levies. |