Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

[Legosoldier]

hooray, a continuation!

Good luck with this story Theodotos, I hope it would be as great or even better than the last one!

[Joszen1]

Can't wait to see what this one holds! Since this is on the EB guild sub-forum, might I ask which TW and/or mod you are using?

[Theodotos I]

It's actually on the Mead Hall, so it MTW2, with the Kingdom of the Scots mod. I'll be updating a few minutes.

[Theodotos I]

Chapter I: Because of a Woman

The years passed swiftly as I grew to manhood, the gawky gaunt form of the youth exchanged for the hard body of the man. And peace came slowly to the Highlands. One by one, representatives from the surrounding clans came to the village of our chieftain, Duncan MacDougall, suing for peace at any price. And a price they paid. The clans of Mackenzie and MacLeod humbled themselves before Duncan, though the truce with MacLeod was fragile and soon to be broken again. Even a fair daughter of the Norse appeared one day, seeking an end to the conflict between us. The thrashing we gave to their fleet in my sixteenth year taught them a lesson they were not quick to forget.
I left the sword in its hiding place near the Devil's Tor, hidden from all eyes except my own, and those were fastened upon it on a daily basis. The spell the blade had cast on that long-ago misty morn still held me fast in its grasp. But its use was for the future. For now—I took down my father's sword from it's place over the door and learned its use, feinting in mock sword-bouts with the young men of the village. Regardless the training, peace had come to the glens, to the small village I called my home. And despite the ferocity of highland winter, the despair of a crop that failed, despite all these life was good, the best my people had known in long years. And deep within us was the knowledge, the certitude that such an idyll could not last.
The people to the south, the English, were stirring—no one knew which way their swords might be pointed next. And our brothers, the clansmen between us and Comyn, were equally unpredictable. Yet when war came, it was unexpected, coming upon us like the lightning-bolt of of the clear sky of summer.
It all began because of a woman.
I was on the village green when the news came, a heavy wooden sword in my hand, fashioned by the smithy to approximate the weight of a clansman's blade. I held it back toward my head, parrying a sharp blow. Recovering, I gave ground, looking across into the laughing eyes of Finbar MacDougall, a boyhood friend and second cousin of mine.
“Ewan!” He called cheerfully. “You are slipping.”
I heard girlish laughter from the side of the green and flushed red-hot, knowing from whence it came. When he came toward me again I advanced to meet him, taking the sword in both hands and swinging it round in an arc—just like I would have handled the longsword of yore. I heard a smash and then a crack as wood slapped against wood, beating down his guard. Finbar's eyes opened wide, his mock sword snapping in twain. Before he could react, I had shoved the wooden tip against his throat. My eyes locked with his down the length of the sword, a smile of triumph crossing my face. “Surrender, my enemy?”
Finbar laughed, nodding carelessly. I shoved the wooden sword back into my belt, slapping him on the back. “Who did you say was slipping, my friend?”
His only reply was an ironic shake of the head, as we turned and walked together to the edge of the green, where a small group of the village girls had gathered.
All at once I stopped, my ears pricking up at the sound. I grasped Finbar by the shoulder, hissing, “Listen!”
The hoofbeats of a horse thundered down the dusty summer road toward us, a lone rider reining up before the green. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my uncle, a look of worry on his face, coming toward us.
The rider dismounted, offering a sweaty hand to my uncle, the head man of the village. It was to him that any message must be given.
I pressed closer to hear whatever news had brought this stranger to our hamlet, and feeling movement at my side, I looked to find Finbar doing the same.
“. . .Duncan is calling the clansmen together to Dunstaffnage,” I heard the messenger say. “We sail for Jura at the end of the month.”
“Jura? Is that not the isle of Angus MacLean and his clans?” My uncle asked.
“Yea,” the messenger nodded. “We march against the MacLeans, with the hopes of taking Lagg.”
“Why? It has been years since the war.”
“A matter with Duncan's son Ewan. Apparently the young fool fell in love during a visit to Jura—with the daughter of Angus. She was denied him and he has succeeded in stirring up his father to avenge the insult.”
“Madness,” my uncle whispered. “The clansmen of Angus MacLean must number nigh a thousand men on Jura alone.”
I could see from the look in the messenger's eye that he agreed with my uncle's assessment, but declaring so was impolitic. “It is the wish of Duncan,” he replied stolidly. “Shall I tell him you wish to remain in your fields?”
Fire flashed red-hot across my uncle's visage. “Nay, we will be there. Every man that can carry a sword will be there—to avenge ourselves upon the Clan MacLean.”

[Theodotos I]

Chapter II: Voyage to Jura

We assembled at Dunstaffnage at the end of the month, as spring was turning into summer, every mother's son of the Clan MacDougall, four hundred in all.

Finbar and I wandered through the corridors of the wooden motte, marveling at it's construction for defense, the design far more complex than the simple palisade guarding the village at home.
I smile at the thought of my wonder now. Now when the vagaries of life have carried me so far from my birthplace—I have seen so many things, the wonders of Dunstaffnage fade into the distant mist. They are as nothing now. But as a boy—they were in verity marvelous.
Assembling at the wharf, we prepared to board a small fleet of cogs—some of the very ships that had vanquished the Norse fleet three years previous.
As we marched aboard, our swords firmly girt to our sides, a small band of riders came in from the east, their mounts foaming.
The clansmen turned as one man about us, their blades raised high to heaven in salute, their voices calling out lustily, “Duncan!”
I jabbed Finbar in the ribs with my elbow and in a trice we joined the salute, our young voices bellowing out adoration to our chieftain.
Duncan smiled as he came up the gangway onto the cog, his kilt dusty from the journey, a broadsword in his hand. It was my first look at our clan's leader. In appearance, he was little more than an ordinary man, like any other I might have met in the villages. A servant carried his armor and weapons onto the ship, he retaining only the conical helmet and sword. But it was his face that caught my attention.
Eyes flashed out from sockets deepset in his rugged face, eyes sea blue and charismatic. He glanced over in our direction, his gaze sweeping over the assembled clansmen. It was passing, but for that moment I felt as though his eyes were gazing into my very soul. I felt a stirring inside, a fierce surge of patriotism building within me. This man was a leader to fight for, yea, verily to die for. And I was ready. . .

Ready, as it soon appeared, for everything except what happened. I had only been out on my uncle's fishing smacks once or twice. They had never really affected me, journeys through calm little inlets and short passages across the waters. I had enjoyed them.
The two-day journey to Jura was hell. The priest was in high demand pronouncing last rites over clansmen who believed they were only two steps away from the grave, vomiting their meals over the side of the cog. Some never made it to the side and soon the vessel reeked with their stench.
I was one of them. In my agony, I cursed the day of my birth, the sea, the vessel, and most of all Finbar, the fisherman's son, who proudly bestrode the decks, laughing at the poor benighted lubbers less accustomed to the sea than himself.
How, I asked myself, if we could not best the sea, could we be expected to stagger ashore and fight the MacLeans?
Our fleet dropped anchor off Jura the following day and our eagerness to get on dry land once more overcame our fear of the coming battle. For coming it was, certain as the rising of the sun. Duncan had no intention of turning back. His name had been insulted, and that was cause enough.
The dark, craggy cliffs of Jura loomed threatening through the morning mist as we sailed in closer to the island. I heard Duncan speak to the master by the ship's wheel.
“Where is this beach you speak of?”
“Scarce three more miles, milord,” came the patient reply, the sailor to the warrior. “We should arrive shortly.”
Three more miles. My heart beat faster with the excitement of the moment. I went and told Finbar and together we stood in the prow of the cog, gazing eagerly into the mist. We were nothing but boys then, ignorant of the horror of what we were about to face, ignorant of the true nature of battle, of war.
Nothing but foolish, stupid boys. . .

[Olaf Blackeyes]

Uhh wheres Chapter II?

EDIT: LOLOLOL Its cool dude.

[Theodotos I]

Thanks for catching that. It's a typo.