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Thread: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

  1. #1

    Default Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  2. #2

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR


    Prologue: Dawn of Destiny

    I turned the blade over in my hands, a thrill surging through my veins. It was hardly the first time in my life that I had seen a sword, though scarce thirteen winters had passed since my birth. But a sword was the weapon of a king, of a chieftain. I, Ewan of Clan MacDougall, was neither. I was a peasant, the widow's son, as the chieftain knew me. No man knew my name. One day they would. But, as I knelt there, my bare knees cushioned by the cool earth of the furrow, I knew nothing of this. The future was a dark mist, hiding the path from my eyes.
    All I knew then was the spell of the sword—a magical weapon such as I had never seen before. It took both my hands and all of my strength to lift it, a long blade as tall as I was then, a stripling of thirteen.
    Where had it come from? The question flashed unbidden to my mind and I glanced furtively through the morning mist, as though I expected to see its owner staring sternly upon me.
    There was no one there. I was alone, alone there upon the moor, the only witness the cow staring placidly at me six feet away.
    The sword I held in my hands was no common weapon, nothing like the clansman's sword of my father, the blade which still hung above the entrance to our hut on the glen. This was the sword of a noble, of a king. . .
    How long I knelt there, I know not. By the time I remember, the sun was shining over the highlands to the north, glinting off the blade I held. I lifted it up, brushing its edge carefully with my finger to clean off the dirt that encrusted it.
    What to do? I knew not then, I know not now what I would have done differently. From the moment I saw it, I knew I could not give it up. And I knew I would never be the same again.
    I rose to my feet with a sigh, making my way to a small cave near the Devil's Tor, an elevation rising above the surrounding plain. Looking back, I'm sure I made a comic figure, the gaunt youth carrying a colossal sword, glancing from left to right as though searching for an antagonist. Yea, but there was little amusing in the situation to me then.
    Little has been amusing to me in the years since, either. Fate has woven a twisted road for this son of the clans. Fate—and a sword. . .
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  3. #3
    Who's the savage? Member Legosoldier's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    hooray, a continuation!

    Good luck with this story Theodotos, I hope it would be as great or even better than the last one!
    Quote Originally Posted by KukriKhan View Post
    "Pissing contest" pictures two 8year olds urinating on the side of a barn to see who can wet higher. Quaint.
    "Pee race" however, evokes 2 kids running a 100 yard dash with their boyhoods hanging out, spraying hither and yon furiously, as they race to the finish line. Hilarious!
    Quote Originally Posted by a completely inoffensive name View Post
    Have the strength of Arnold Schwarzenegger, the voice of Billy Mays and the ability to produce bull**** at a moments notice and you can be the leader of anything.

  4. #4
    Member Member Joszen1's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    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?

  5. #5

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    It's actually on the Mead Hall, so it MTW2, with the Kingdom of the Scots mod. I'll be updating a few minutes.
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  6. #6

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    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.”
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  7. #7

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    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. . .
    Last edited by Theodotos I; 12-12-2008 at 21:35.
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  8. #8
    Rampant psychopath Member Olaf Blackeyes's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Uhh wheres Chapter II?

    EDIT: LOLOLOL Its cool dude.
    Last edited by Olaf Blackeyes; 12-13-2008 at 04:22.

    My own personal SLAVE BAND (insert super evil laugh here)
    My balloons:
    My AAR The Story of Souls: A Sweboz AAR
    https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showthread.php?t=109013


    Quote Originally Posted by Dayve View Post
    You're fighting against the AI... how do you NOT win?

  9. #9

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Thanks for catching that. It's a typo.
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  10. #10

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter III: The Valley of the Shadow

    We disembarked upon the beach of Jura, floundering ashore through breakers that well nigh threatened to drown us. A chill wind was blowing from the north, and we huddled 'round small fires that night, soaked to the skin and shivering.
    Just over the brow of the hill lay Lagg, the capital of Angus MacLean.

    There was little sleep to be had that night in our camp, and when we awoke we were thrice as exhausted as when we had lain down.
    I found Finbar washing his face in a brook, endeavoring to clear the sleep from his eyes. I knelt there beside him and found my hands trembling as they raised water to my face.
    I tried to hide the nervousness, sure my friend would laugh at my discomfiture. Instead he looked at me and I saw my fear mirrored in his eyes.
    “What's it like to kill a man, Ewan?” he asked. I shook my head, staring down at the ripples of the brook, ever-expanding, never-ending. It was a question I had asked myself countless times through the night, tossing and turning on my rude bed of pine boughs.
    “How should I know?” I replied abruptly, angered more at my ignorance than at his question. Angered by my fear. Fear of the unknown.
    The horn blew in the distance, calling the clansmen together. I sprang to my feet, grabbing up my sword and the sodden piece of bread that had done for my breakfast.
    Skies grew dark in the northern sky, casting a long shadow over the vale where we gathered, assembling in our companies. Finbar and I took our places, together with every fighting man of our village. I saw my uncle at the head of our band, claymore in his hand, his head bared.
    The priest came forward, his eyes lifted toward the heavens, a crucifix in his hand, pronouncing a blessing upon the assembled warriors.
    “Yea,” he cried, “yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”
    A rumble of thunder from the north punctuated his words. “Thou, yea Thou my God, Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.”
    The morning sun glinted off the golden crucifix, a strange counterpoint to the dark clouds gathering to the north. The clouds of war. Death was present with us there.
    The priest made the sign of the cross as he continued, pronouncing absolution over those who would die, assuring them of the safety of their souls.
    Duncan appeared at the priest's side, his unsheathed sword in his hand. “March on! March on, brave sons of MacDougall. And remember, victory! Victory or Death!”
    My boyish heart swelled with pride at the words, as our line swung forward, moving toward the town. I was young, I did not know—yet. The two were not mutually exclusive. Victory did not come without Death. Only the fortunate lived to see the victory.
    But we moved forward regardless, the brave sons of the clan. . .

    The long awaited storm broke upon Jura with the suddenness of death, rain lashing down upon our bodies, lightning illuminating the scene with sudden flashes.
    I hurried forward slightly to speak to my uncle, to ask if we were truly going to attack in the midst of this storm.
    He nodded, smiling at my confusion. “It will neutralize the archers of MacLean. God is with us, my son.”
    The MacLeans came out to meet us as we formed a rough line in front of the town.


    A sword in my right, a buckler in my left. I was ready, my fingers trembling as the cold rain continued to fall. I cast a glance to our right flank, where the personal entourage of Duncan's son Ewan awaited. He may have shared my name, but that was all. He stood tall and proud, clad in a helmet and armor. His blade was long and broad, reminding of the sword I had discovered as a boy. Perhaps one day I would carry that into battle.
    The warriors of Angus MacLean came swirling out to meet us, their warcries echoing amidst the thunder, amidst the driving rain.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the line to our right leap forward, Ewan's men rushing forward, their huge swords ready for the slaughter.
    “The fool!” I heard my uncle swear under his breath. Then he raised his sword on high and gave the order to charge.
    To our front, roughly dressed clansmen wielding heavy axes rushed forward to meet us. I struggled to keep up as the men of my village raced toward the collision, toward the death that was to come.

    What was it like to kill a man? I would find out, that was the only thing certain in my mind. That and the gut-twisting knowledge that I might be the one to die.
    Our lines collided and in a trice we lost all organization, all sense of place. One moment Finbar was at my side, and the next he was gone. I turned briefly to look for him and felt an axe swing past my head.
    I ducked low, twisting on heel to look into the face of a MacLean. This was no boy, this was a warrior in his prime. Cursing, he made another pass at me with his axe, chopping a piece out my shield as I raised it to protect my head.
    I made a feeble parry with my sword, reacting instinctively, well aware my life was now on the line for all of the practice I had done in the village green. That had been play.
    This was anything but.
    As his axe came down for the third time I got its haft on my sword-blade, holding it high above my head, our weapons locked together. His face was unchanging, impassive, no hatred nor joy there, just a sheer determination to kill me, the invader of his land.
    And he was the stronger. I could feel my arm tiring as I endeavored to push him back.
    My left hand dropped the buckler, fumbling for the dirk at my waist, grasping it by feel, not by sight, as my eyes locked with his.
    There. It was mine, my fingers closed around the hilt and jerked it from my belt, struggling to stave off the continual downward press of his sword.
    Summoning up all of my remaining strength, I pressed suddenly forward, catching him by surprise. His power ripped the sword from my hand, but it was too late. I was in close, the dagger flashing in my hand.
    The blade slashed deep into his body between the ribs and I jerked it out to stab again. His eyes glazed over, the heavy axe dropping from his nerveless fingers as he crumpled forward into the mud of the field.
    I stooped to retrieve my sword, my stomach churning at the sight of his blood covering my hands, droplets flecking my tartan. I wanted to do nothing more than run, run away and empy my stomach in the woods. But I could not—there was no place to run to—all the men of my village were surrounding me, fighting like heroes.
    Fighting like beasts.

    No place to run, no place to hide. So I pressed forward, fighting my way to my uncle's side, seeking courage from his company.
    Duncan's bodyguards had joined us now, pressing the MacLeans back across the blood-stained grass of the meadow. Toward the outskirts of Lagg.
    Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. . .
    The warrior's world is a small one, restricted to the few feet in front of and around his body. That day, I was just learning that truth. Had someone asked me “How goes the battle?” I would not have known aught to tell them. My only judge was the dead bodies of my villagers I stood over, fighting with my highland blade.
    A sword-slash bit deep into my shoulder and for a moment I thought I would faint with the pain, but to do so was to die. I lashed back, my sword driving deep into the belly of my antagonist. He looked down at the protruding blade for a moment, as though in disbelief, and then fell forward as I ripped it from his body.

    The skirl of pipes rose high above the din of battle, Duncan's piper urging us on. I caught a glimpse of Ewan, son of Duncan, fighting heroically amongst his clansmen just a few feet away from me. His tall form was bloodied but a look of stolid defiance was on his face as his sword cleared a path amidst his enemies.
    And then it happened, before I or anyone else could react. A MacLean was behind him, slashing down one of Ewan's entourage with a powerful blow of his axe. He turned, the bloody war-axe lifted high in the rain, swinging down.
    It bit into Ewan's neck between helmet and armor. I saw blood spurt into the air, the heir's form slowly toppling forward as his knees went out from under him. And in that instant, as he lay face-down in the muddy sod, I knew. He was dead.

    His enraged bodyguards closed upon the assassin and cut him to pieces. I saw him die beneath their blades. But I knew. No one had to tell me. The battle was turning against us. . .
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  11. #11
    Mercury Member Thermal's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    wow detailed

  12. #12
    Retired Senior Member Prince Cobra's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Ah, great pictures!

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    I'm going to read this son
    Last edited by Prince Cobra; 12-17-2008 at 05:21.
    R.I.P. Tosa...


  13. #13
    The Naked Rambler Member Roka's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    excellent! another AAR, and one featuring the wars that shaped my country to boot

    you've made me a happy man

  14. #14
    Arrogant Ashigaru Moderator Ludens's Avatar
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    Lightbulb Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    I am glad to see you back to writing, Theodotos. Please continue with this tale.
    Looking for a good read? Visit the Library!

  15. #15

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Thanks to all, both old friends and new. I will try to post up another chapter early next week, so keep watching--the best is yet to come.
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  16. #16

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter IV: The Price

    Arrows flew fast and thick among our ranks as the MacLean archers plied their bows against us, undeterred by the pounding rain. It was as though God in heaven was attempting to wash away the blood as fast as we could spill it. A futile effort. I saw a neighbor fall, an arrow protruding from his chest as he sagged forward into the muddy sod.

    My arms were tired, more tired than they had ever been in my life, but I fought on, struggling to raise the sword for each successive blow. There was nothing else to do. I caught the blow of a MacLean axe on my buckler and twisted it away from my body, driving deep beneath his guard with my sword. His mouth opened as though he were about to say something, but no words came out, at least none that I could understand. A curse upon me, a prayer to God above, a plea for mercy—I would never know. The words died with him.

    The death of the chieftain's son seemed to endue our highlanders with even greater strength, greater fury. We pushed on until the clansmen of MacLean broke before us, several bands turning and running into town. Several of my fellow villagers started to pursue, but my uncle's voice rang out strong and clear above the din of the battle, ordering us back into position.
    Our line turned, swinging upon the embattled right flank of our army, where Duncan stood with his guards, fighting viciously against the enemy.

    The MacLeans did not realize their danger until too late as our clansmen charged down upon their rear, pinning them between our two forces.
    I was at my uncle's side as the forces collided. He had been wounded and his garments were stained red with blood but there was no slowness in his step, no sign of weakness as we met the MacLeans sword against sword.
    Our clansmen against theirs, our leader against theirs. My uncle laid his hand on my shoulder, pointing out a tall warrior among the enemy's ranks. “Angus!” he hissed.
    We closed in around the MacLean chieftain, wolves baying for his blood. There was one thing uppermost in the minds of all of us. Revenge. Revenge the son of Duncan. . .
    Duncan closed with Angus, chieftain against chieftain. I could see our leader from a distance, see the tears mingling with blood and sweat, running in dirty rivulets down his face.
    One of his bodyguards stepped in, claymore drawn back. Everything seemed to move as though in a dream. I saw the blade descend upon the shoulder of Angus, breaking the shoulderblade with its weight.The MacLean chieftain screamed, falling to the ground.

    The bodyguard drew back the sword once again, the blood-wet blade descending one final time. And Duncan was avenged. . .

    The fallen chieftain's clansmen broke at the sight, fleeing back into the town. Duncan followed and we pursued, entering the village right on the heels of the fleeing foe.
    Duncan fought like a man possessed, hacking down the enemy as we ran through the village.

    None did he spare in his wrath—I saw his blade descend upon a young woman running for shelter across the village street. Her scream echoed across the square, above the clamor of the battle, haunting me with its anguished intensity. There was no quarter, not here, not now. Those that tried to surrender were slain where they knelt.
    Vicious fighting erupted once more around the village green as the MacLeans came slowly to the realization that this was no ordinary battle. For them, this was a fight to the death.
    Yet to no avail. Their warriors fell one by one, until only two remained, the last defenders of Lagg.

    They parried our every sword-slash as we surrounded them. My uncle, gashed in a hundred places by the blades of the enemy, stepped forward to meet them, matching blow for blow. I saw it in his eyes then, an indefinable courage, a fearless defiance.
    Courage was of no use on this day. And all the courage in the world could not have saved my uncle. His fellow clansmen rushed forward to help him, but it was too late. The enemy warrior rushed deftly beneath my uncle's guard and ran him through the belly. I saw him collapse, too far away to help, an anguished cry breaking forth from my lips as I saw my father's brother fall to the street, wallowing in his own blood. Dying. . .
    Our highlanders closed in then, fighting over the body of their dying clansman. And the two defenders of Lagg paid the price for their deeds. For their defense of their town.

    The battle was over—we were triumphant. Dear God, what triumph? All around me, clansmen fell to their knees, loud cries reaching to the heavens as they praised God for their victory.
    The price of victory.
    I dropped down beside my uncle's body, my tears wetting the earth. He looked up into my eyes, faint strength still lighting his visage.
    “Fare thee well, Ewan. Fare thee well, and Godspeed you, boy. . .”
    And the light died in his eyes, his spirit passing from this life to the next. God rest his soul, I thought, clasping his lifeless hands in my own.
    Duncan came striding onto the green, the darkness of his face unmatched by the clouds in the firmament above. “Rise, my brothers of MacDougall! Rise and slay. Let no one be left alive. Avenge my son!”

    I rose slowly, my sword still in my hand, gazing about as though unsure of his meaning. And I saw my clansmen begin to move between the houses, entering them at will. I heard screams of women and children dying. And I realized the horror had only just begun. . .
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  17. #17

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter V: Memory's Eye

    Wailing. Screams. Cries of terror and agony, children crying out, their pleas cut short by the edge of the sword. I shot bolt upright in bed, a cold sweat soaking my shirt, the memories flooding through my mind. Memories of Lagg. Memories of slaughter. Devastation.
    It had been well nigh a month since we had returned from the isle of Jura, a month since that horrible day. If I shut my eyes, I could still see them.
    I rose and dressed, moving quietly so as not to disturb my mother, who slept on the other side of the partition in the small hut we called our home. I slipped carefully from the house, leaving the latch-string out. Where I was going, I knew not. Somewhere, anywhere, a place to flee the memories that haunted me.
    The moon was full, shining an eerie light down upon the small village I called home. Mourning had come to the village, for not only had my uncle died but many others of the clan, many good men.
    And so I walked, on through the night, aimlessly and yet with purpose, I knew not what. On and on, across the hills.
    At length, I found myself near the Devil's Tor, its craggy height silhouetted by the moonbeams, a haunting spectacle. I fell to my knees near its base, my hands peeling away the rocks I had placed there so many years ago. A hollow emerged, shadowed by the darkness of night.
    I reached within, my fingers encountering cloth, the remnants of an old cloak in which I had wrapped the sword.
    I unwrapped the glistening blade, held it aloft. The years of work since my boyhood had strengthened me, and I could lift the sword in one hand, the weight bespeaking might. Power.
    The same power that had caused carnage at Lagg. I heard a gasp from behind me and whirled, the blade still in my hand, my nerves frayed and on edge from the month of sleepless nights, reliving the horror.
    The figure of a young woman stood behind me, her hand raised to her mouth to stifle the gasp of surprise. My sword lowered, I grasped her by the arm, drawing her forth into the moonlight.
    “Marion!” I exclaimed, my own surprise showing itself. “What are you doing here?”
    I had not spoken with her since our departure for Jura, nay indeed, since my boyish fancy had lighted upon her during the sword-bout on the green.
    She turned away, her bright eyes shadowed. “I used to come here with my father,” she replied, choking back a sob.
    I closed my eyes briefly, calling back the memories, though pain flooded through me with each fresh image. And I remembered.
    Her father. One of the strongest men in the village. And one of the kindest. He had smiled upon my attentions to his daughter with an indulgence few fathers would show.
    He had died scarce five minutes following the first charge of Angus MacLean on the outskirts of Lagg.
    Died wallowing in his own blood. For what?
    I laid the ancient longsword to the side, leaning it against the rocks and moved forward, placing my hands on her shoulders.
    She leaned back, pillowing her head on my chest as I wrapped my arms around her waist. I could feel the tears running unbidden down her cheeks, the outpouring of a heart full of sorrow. I wanted to say something to comfort her grief, but my lips refused to form the words, helpless in my own sorrow and fury.
    I would never know how long we were there, how long her body shook with silent sobs, how long her tears fell upon my hands as I held her close in the moonlight.
    When the sun arose, the first rays of light dawning across the hills of purple, we were still there, the same as before, save that she had fallen asleep in my arms. I bent forward, my eyes sorrowful as my lips grazed her cheek. “Never,” I whispered, resolve steeling my voice. “No will hurt you—ever again. I will see to it.”
    It would take me years to realize just how vain that promise had been. Vain and empty as the wind blowing across the heather. To memory's eye all is vanity. . .
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  18. #18

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter VI: John MacCoul

    Springtime, summer, harvest. The cycles of life continued in my village, but not without change. Men who had planted their crops in the spring were no longer there in fall to reap the harvest. Barley rotted in the fields as starving widows struggled with their wee bairns to bring in the grain. By the time I had finished with our field, my hands were covered with blisters from swinging the scythe. But we were the lucky ones.
    I left and went to the fields of young Marion McCann and her mother. Her father had been prosperous in his life and planted much grain—before Lagg.
    The days passed as I wrapped my hands in cloth ripped from Marion's petticoats, struggling to protect the blisters. It was of no use, but the grain began flowing into their barn. It would be enough to survive the coming winter. I hoped.
    It was in the afternoon, a week after I had come to work with the McCanns. I was in the field, wiping sweat from my brow as I prepared to wrap another sheaf of barley. The sun beat down with a fervent heat as I struggled with the stalks of barley.
    Marion materialized at my elbow, a pitcher of water in her hand. I sat down on a rock as she handed me the dipper.
    “I want to thank you for helping us, Ewan,” she whispered, looking out over the fields. “I don't know how we could have managed without your help.”
    “I'm sure someone else would have offered,” I replied with a smile, draining the dipper. A sigh escaped my lips as the cool water slid down my parched throat. “Finbar, perhaps?”
    She flushed, laughing as she refilled the dipper and handed it back to me. “You hadn't heard?”
    “Heard what?”
    “Of Finbar. He left three months ago.”
    I looked at her strangely. “No. I knew that I had not seen him during the harvest—but I assumed. . .Where did he go?”
    “South. To join the clansmen of John MacCoul.”
    I nodded in understanding. John MacCoul was the new son-in-law of Duncan MacDougall.

    “Why?”
    She smiled. “I don't know. He didn't tell me that.”
    And then she was gone, running lightly over the barley stubble back to the rude house she called her home. I watched her go, shaking my head at the news.
    Finbar, with John MacCoul. Would wonders never cease?
    They never would. That evening, I sat at the bare wooden table with Marion and her mother, dipping barley bread in a weak pottage. They needed this harvest, I realized with fresh intensity. It was the line between themselves and starvation.
    Hoofbeats in the distance, then closer, an ominous thunder. I glanced first at Marion and then at her mother. “Expecting someone?”
    Both women shook their heads in the negative. I rose from my seat and crossed the dirt floor, nearly tripping over a chicken in my path. My sword was by the door and I drew it from its sheath.
    “Hello the house!” A cheery voice rang without. I smiled, dropping the sword and pulling open the latch-string. “Finbar!”
    His back was toward me as he dismounted and he turned, as though not believing his ears. “Ewan!” he exclaimed, forcing a smile to his face. “What are you doing here?”
    “Helping with the harvest,” I replied with a grin. “What tidings do you bear from John MacCoul?”
    “I come from the Isle of Arran,” he retorted, still breathless from his ride.
    My brow furrowed as I stood in the doorway, puzzled by his statement. Movement at my shoulder and I half-turned to find Marion standing there. “Ask our friend in, Ewan,” she instructed softly. “We have enough.”
    “Yes,” I assented, far from wanting to obey her request. “Won't you come in and join us for supper, Finbar?” I invited, though I knew the look in my eyes was far from inviting.
    My old playmate didn't seem to notice, striding into the house and bidding hello to Marion and his mother as though entirely familiar with his surroundings. “Arran?” I asked. “Are those not the holdings of the Hamiltons, Alexander and his sons.”
    “Were, my brother,” he responded with a grin, washing his hands in a basin of water Marion held out to him. “Alexander Hamilton is dead.”
    “Why?”
    “Their merchants were cheating our people in the lowlands, charging high prices for their grain, just because they knew we had none. So we struck.”
    “You struck?” I asked, still struggling to grasp the enormity of what he was saying.
    “Yes, yes, brother,” he replied impatiently. “John MacCoul led a force of well-nigh six hundred clansmen to attack the Hamiltons. It was glorious.”

    “And?” I asked.
    “And we won,” he replied. “I didn't come skulking in here like a whipped pup, did I? Arran is in our hands. The Hamiltons have bowed the kneee to Duncan.”

    “Duncan approved of this action of MacCoul's?”
    Finbar looked across the room at me in disbelief. “Approve? It was Duncan's plan. . .”
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  19. #19

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter VII: Final Reckoning

    Winter came, fierce and harsh across the highlands, smiting the countryside with its icy breath. People died that winter, women and children left desolate by the expeditions against the islands of Jura and Arran.
    The price of victory, delayed as more innocents perished 'neath the flood tide of sorrow. Even the village priest seemed to sense the irony of it all, as he took his text from the words of our Lord unto St. Peter, Those that take the sword will perish by the sword, before continuing with the mass in the sacred language, Latin.
    Winter was no time for campaigning, no time to rip more men from their families. A sensible man would have known this. Unfortunately for the welfare's of the clan's helpless, Duncan MacDougall was not a sensible man. Buoyed up and emboldened by the success of John MacCoul's strike against the Hamiltons during the harvest, he began laying the groundwork for a further attack. A day of final reckoning against the MacLeans. I had known it was coming, for I had been on the square of Lagg, kneeling at the side of my uncle's lifeless body. I had heard the oath Duncan swore that day, cradling his son's corpse in his arms, an oath mighty and terrible, that he would not rest while a MacLean remained alive.
    And alive they remained, their final stronghold the village of Tobermory on the Isle of Mull, under the leadership of Angus' son, Malcolm MacLean.

    Duncan's retainers began spreading over the highlands at the first thaw of spring, rallying a force to attack Mull and Malcom's people there. This time it would be final.
    And the young men responded to the call, I among them. Finbar was going and although the purpose of our journey saddened me, I was glad to see him out of the village. All through the long winter, I had never quite grown accustomed to finding him at the house of Marion, his presence like a wedge between us. Sadness, that an old friend should intervene twixt I and the girl that had ensnared my heart.
    She gave no indication to me that she was annoyed by Finbar's attentions, no indication that she appreciated them. Either way, it gave me a source for unease. And so we left the village together, brothers-in-arms. Brothers indeed.
    The voyage was not quite as rough this time, perhaps because I was becoming more accustomed to the sea, perhaps because more important things occupied my mind. A year had passed since I had first seen battle, yet I loved the thought of it no more now than then. Nay verily, even less.
    Finbar seemed more assured, striding the quarterdeck of the cog as though he was its master, without a care in the world.
    I worried. The time for planting was come, and we were gone, almost every grown man of the MacDougalls.

    A late planting meant a late harvest. God in heaven knew that times had been hard enough without this.
    We landed on Mull in the last days of April, wading ashore in ice-cold water. The MacLeans had gathered their women and children into the village of Tobermory and armed themselves, awaiting our coming. Duncan was not the man to make them wait.

    It took us two days to get men and provisions off the cogs, two days filled with fear and tension as we anticipated a MacLean attack before we could disembark. The attack never came.
    On the third day we marched inland, to Tobermory, to meet the MacLeans, our forces encircling the village as dusk fell on that night.
    We settled down on the hill above the village, shivering through a long, sleepless night. Finbar and I stood guard, swords in our hands. I sweated despite the cold, my eyes straining to pierce the darkness, to perceive the threat. I need not have feared.
    Dawn broke bright and chill, the sun shedding its pale glow over the plain where we gathered, our teeth chattering as we strapped sword to side, buckler to arm, preparing for battle.

    Movement among the houses, their thatched roofs caught by the light of the rising sun. Men hurrying forward, dressing their ranks as they moved to meet us. A single man came out from their ranks, a naked sword in his hands.
    “Duncan!” he cried, his voice a challenge thrown upon the winds. “What is the meaning of this?”
    Duncan stood forth, tall and proud before our lines, his own blade bared. Espying him, the messenger continued. “Have you come out against us as against the beasts of the field, to catch and kill at your leisure?”
    “Nay!”our chieftain roared back, rage in his voice, booming across the meadow as the sound of many waters.”Nay, but to avenge the murder of my son am I come!”
    “As thou killed my father in the fields of Lagg?” the speaker demanded, identifying himself as Malcolm MacLean. “Not a man here was responsible for the death of thy son! It is thou that art the murderer, the slayer of innocents. Come, and may God require our blood at your hand!”
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  20. #20
    The Abominable Senior Member Hexxagon Champion Monk's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Excellent work thus far Theodotos. When working with AAR's it's always tough balancing SS numbers with how much you write, it looks like though you have maintained a very good balanace here thus far.

    Please continue.

  21. #21

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter VIII: End of the MacLeans

    The man turned on heel, walking back into the ranks of his followers. We could still see him, rallying them forward as the MacLean host swelled out from the among the houses, charging out into the field of battle. At Duncan's order, our line moved forward, marching slowly, steadily—then faster, ever onward.
    “Victory!” I heard Duncan cry, his sword describing an arc above his head, air forced from his lungs as he screamed the age-old battle-cry of the MacDougalls. “Victory or death!”
    Finbar marched at my side, excitement clearly written in his visage. He was enjoying himself.
    We echoed Duncan's cry, a savage scream ripped from the depths of a hundred throats, our blades and axes lifted high as we broke into a run, racing to our deaths, charging into the oncoming MacLeans.
    The lines collided with each other with an almost audible crash, throwing men off their feet, the ring of steel sounding through the air as blade met blade.

    The boy on my right was disemboweled by a MacLean sword, fell screaming to the earth, his face bathed in the mud of the field. I turned, facing his killer, a tall bearded warrior, his tartan spattered with the boy's blood.
    My sword flashed upward, locking with his own. I saw fire flash in his eyes as he endeavored to beat down my guard. The boy moaned, his body writhing in its last agony. He was a stranger to me, but rage consumed me at the sound and I pressed my attack more fiercely. Men were falling all around me, to the right, to the left. Nothing mattered, a fierce bloodlust rising up within me, everything fading away. Every sight except my antagonist, every sound save the ringing of our swords one against the other.
    It was as though I soared above the field of battle, looking down upon the warriors, upon the death struggle. I saw our cavalry, twenty men on small horses, sweep in from the side, flanking the MacLeans.

    I was myself and yet not within myself, fighting desperately for the ground upon which I stood. Two feet upon a patch of soggy ground. Nothing more did I fight for. Nothing less.
    I was fighting an older warrior and a stronger. I was tiring, both of us gashed and bleeding freely.
    Losing—the reality of my own approaching death struck me with renewed force, panicking me to one last desperate effort. I thrust forward with my own sword, the blade sliding along his bared forearm, raising the flesh into an angry weal. Leaving myself open, off-balance, vulnerable.
    He moved in to take advantage of my mistake, his sword lifted high for one final blow. I could see myself stumble backward, caught off-guard. Finbar materialized out of the blood-red mist that surrounded my vision, his sword flashing forward. The blade bit deep into the MacLean's neck, he roared like a wounded bull, starting to turn, his guard coming up.
    It wasn't soon enough. Finbar's sword slid forward, driving below his guard into his belly. The man screamed, falling into the muck of the meadow, dead as the boy he had slain.
    The haze began to clear away, I heard Finbar dimly exclaiming, “You guard yourself well, brother!”
    And the battle surged on, the killing never abated. The MacLeans were fighting for the last home they knew, fighting for their wives and children, for everything they held dear.
    They, as I, remembered Lagg. They would never abandon those they loved to such a fate. They would die first. They, or we.
    I moved forward, fighting shoulder to shoulder with my fellow clansmen, as we steadily pushed the MacLeans back across the meadow. We were dirty, bloody, and worn.

    Somewhere off on the left flank of our host, our horsemen fought on, torn to pieces by the swords and spears of the MacLeans, regrouping to fight on time and again.
    A boy thrust his spear toward me—a boy, perhaps four years my junior. Too young to fight, too young to kill. Too young to be killed. I caught his spearpoint in the wood of my buckler, a wrench of my arm twisting it out of his grasp. The next moment my blade descended upon him, his blood spattering my face as the lifeless corpse crumpled to the earth. A life extinguished. To what purpose?
    Rallying once again, our cavalry charged, descending upon the rear of the MacLean battle line like avenging angels. Michael himself never raised such a tempest, men trodden under foot by their steeds. I would later learn that Malcolm MacLean was among them, disappearing beneath the hooves, his last words lost forever in the tempest of battle.

    What had happened I knew not then, but the MacLean line wavered, cries of rage and sorrow erupting from their ranks.
    A man fled to the rear, a lone, terrified, faceless figure. His fright was as contagious as it was anonymous, groups of clansmen turning and running toward the rear.

    Men before me threw down their weapons and fled, running toward the village of Tobermory. We followed, hacking down all those we could catch. I seized one man by the arm, the battle-rage still filling my body. He turned half-round, a plea for mercy on his lips. His sword and buckler tossed away, he was defenseless. My blade descended upon his head, silencing that plea forever. The body lolled limply into my arms, his blood bathing my tartan. I recoiled, sickened by the thought of what I had just done.
    My sword-hand dropped to my side and I stumbled away from the fray, my head swirling. The MacLeans were vanquished. I had no wish to see what happened next. I remembered Lagg all too well.

    Some time later, it may have been minutes, it may have been hours, I found myself on the top of a nearby hill, overlooking Tobermory. There was no peace in the glen this dark day.

    I looked and watched in helpless fascination as the screams of the innocent wafted up to me on the breeze. Fire sprung up from one house, then another, and another, and another—the village was being put to the torch. Desolation. . .
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  22. #22
    The Naked Rambler Member Roka's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    another great AAR theodotos, keep it up

  23. #23

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter IX: Second Sight

    The MacLeans were vanquished that dark day in spring, not a man of their number left alive. Not a man, not a babe. The slaughter was complete. Many of our own number had fallen, our losses sore upon the already struggling families of the highlands. A late planting—I knew all too well what this would mean. Many would not survive another winter, not one as brutal as the last. I feared for my people. But the MacLeans were gone. Duncan’s son had been avenged, his memory sanctified in a final welter of blood. Surely peace would now come to the highlands. I was young, but I cared no more for war. My mother was old, my love was yet young and I wished for nothing more than to be able to stay home and enjoy the hours with them both.
    That was many years ago. I, Ewan MacDougall, have lived through much since. Through the strength of my sword-arm I have survived many a field of battle, but the desire still burns strong within my body. The desire for the fighting to cease. I once fancied that Duncan would stop with the MacLeans, that his bloodlust would be satisfied with their sacrifice. I was young—I was naïve. It didn’t stop. Nothing did.
    That fall, I remember the day well when the news came. An alliance signed with the King of Norway was drawing our forces once more to war. I would never learn the truth, but it seemed that MacLeod pirates were harassing the Norwegians from their bastion on the Isle of Skye

    Our alliance committed us to go to war against the MacLeods, to fight with our brothers the Norsemen, or so Duncan’s proclamation read. Since when had the Norse been our brothers? I knew not.
    Yet I prepared once more for the good-byes, for the tears, for the grim knowledge that each good-bye might be the last. I knew not what would lie beyond the grave, even the priest seemed not to know. Mass had been said one last time, I had knelt before the priest for confession every Sabbath-day. My sins were absolved, or so I had been told. Or were they?
    Surely my complicity in the slaughters of Lagg and Tobermory were sins against an almighty God—crimes unforgiven. The foreign chants the priest pronounced at mass did nothing for the grief of my heart, nothing to assuage the guilt that laid so heavy upon me.
    I spent the last few days before we left with Marion, out upon the moors, away from Finbar and the prying eyes of the old gossips of the village. Our love flourished in those highlands, happiness marred only by the thoughts of war and my soon departure.
    Two days before we left, I met with her again. We had walked but for a few minutes together when I realized that something was troubling her. I turned, my voice soft. “Darling, what is it?”
    She looked up at me, brushing her long black hair back from her tear-stained eyes. “Don’t go, Ewan. Not this time,” she whispered, urgency in her tones.
    I stared at her, sensing something, something beyond her usual concern for my safety. Something more. “Why?”
    She turned away from me for a moment, glancing far away across the moors. “I don’t know, Ewan. I have seen. . .” her voice trailed off, as though she was unwilling to continue.
    I laid my hand on her shoulder. “What? What have you seen?”
    “Last night. A dream.” Her words tumbled out in a breathless stream. “I saw our clansmen fighting—in the heavens, as though they fought upon the clouds. Shadowy figures, fighting and dying.”
    I stood looking at her, at a loss for words. “Our clansmen?” I asked finally.
    She nodded. “Please, please, Ewan, just don’t go.”
    “You’ve known of this—it was on your mind, the campaign. Of course you would dream of it.”
    Marion shook her head and I stopped, looking deep into her eyes. “There’s something you don’t want to tell me, isn’t there? There was something more to the dream.”
    A brief nod and she looked away, biting her lip. “Oh, Ewan, I don’t know what to think. Is it true, is this second sight, or is it just my foolish fears. You’ve proved yourself capable in battle, I know that. There is not a braver man in the village.”
    My heart swelled with pride at her words, but I pushed it away with an effort. She was avoiding the subject. I touched her arm, turning her around to face me. “The dream,” I continued firmly, my gaze unwavering. “Tell me the rest of the dream.”
    “We will both lose a friend,” she replied haltingly, unwilling to look me in the eye.
    “Finbar?” I demanded.
    She nodded. “I saw his face. And yours. He will die, but you will be destroyed.”
    My arm fell nerveless to my side, unable to believe what I had just heard. She turned away and ran, her tears flowing freely down her face. Stunned by her words, I called after her, shouting for her to stop, to wait, but to no avail.
    She disappeared like a wraith into the gathering dusk, swallowed up in the cryptic words of her prophecy, the grass bedewed with her tears.
    I turned after a moment, returning to the village. I would not see her again before the fleet sailed. I would not see her for a long time to come. . .
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  24. #24
    The Naked Rambler Member Roka's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    another great update!

    you have me in almost unbearable suspense here

  25. #25

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Quote Originally Posted by Roka View Post
    another great update!

    you have me in almost unbearable suspense here
    My thanks, friend. It's been good to have you along. No highland story I've ever read has been complete without a reference to second sight, so I thought I would include it.
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  26. #26

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Looks interesting....

  27. #27

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter X: Where Heroes Fall

    The weather was fair as we sailed north, bound for the isle of Skye and our rendevous with the Norse fleet under the command of Frederik of Bogense.
    We were relying upon the support of the Norwegians, our own force numbering scarce more than five hundred men.
    Together we would descend upon Skye, our forces united, pushing the MacLeods before us. Or would we?
    A chill wind rippled across the back of my neck as I stood by the railing of the cog, looking out over the sea, the taste of salt in the spray. I thought back to my village, to Marion.
    Dear God, had she been right? I looked over to where Finbar stood, leaning against the rail, as I. His brown hair tousled by the wind, his hand resting easily upon the hilt of the sword at his waist. He felt my gaze and flashed me an easy smile.
    He will die, but you will be destroyed.
    No, it could not be. Never. What had she meant? That I would be destroyed. I would not die, but I would destroyed. . .
    It could not be, yet still the chilling words echoed back, her face flitting across memory’s eye as she uttered them. He will die, but you will be destroyed. . .

    We arrived at the rendevous point five days after our departure from the keep of Dunstaffnage, our voyage prospered by the grace of our Lord, the fair winds He had supplied for us.
    The Norse were nowhere in sight. No matter, we were early.
    Our tiny fleet tacked back and forth, always remaining within sight of the small, rocky island that marked the rendevous , always waiting. We could dimly make out the isle of Skye in the distance, on the edge of the horizon, a gray, hazy mass against an ocean of blue.
    Duncan’s temper was running short, as were our supplies. The Norwegians were late. Were they even coming? Only God knew, and He had not confided in Duncan. . .
    Our captain worried about the danger of being caught by MacLeod ships on the sea, but Duncan dismissed that with an angry snarl. Had the greatest victory we had ever won against the Norse not been fought at sea? Sea was no disadvantage for us. Nay, not for the sons of MacDougall. . .
    We waited a week, a week wasted upon the billows. Then Duncan exploded, making his decision suddenly and unequivocally.
    “The devil take Frederik of Bogense! We sail to attack Dunscaith, Norse or no Norse. If there is no one to share in the fight, then likewise there will be no one to share in the glory.”
    One of the older warriors stirred at my side, I could see trepidation in the man’s eyes. Fear. I turned to him. “Dunscaith? What do you know of it?”
    He cast a sidelong glance in my direction. “I was there in my youth, selling fish before the troubles began. It is a mighty fortress, bounded by the ocean on two sides, a sheer cliff on the other. The only way to attack it is up a winding, serpentine path, scarce wide enough for ten men to walk abreast.”
    “Formidable,” I breathed, the only thing I could think of at that moment.
    He nodded. “If we attack Dunscaith, we are all dead men.”
    I looked at him, a breeze cold as the hand of death blowing across our faces, Marion’s words ringing in my ears. Our clansmen. . .fighting and dying. He will die, but you will be destroyed. . .

    Yet on we sailed, our course straight and true, Skye looming large ahead of us as sun set, its fiery rays silhouetting the rocky isle. Our pilot had spent years around the island, fishing in the days before the troubles, when the MacLeods had been our brothers, in the days of Duncan’s father. He knew the island by heart, guiding us into a deep, tranquil bay on the east of the island.
    “Saints be praised!” he murmured as I stood beside the wheel, watching him guide the cog in.
    “What?” I demanded, my eyes searching his countenance.
    “Our Lord has blessed us by guiding us to this place. It is a sign.”
    “What place is this?”
    “In the fields above this bay, Allan MacLeer led his rebels not ten years ago in a heroic fight against Chieftain Torcall MacLeod. The rebels won the fight and drove Torcall’s clansmen back to Dunscaith. It is a sign, where heroes fall, others rise to take their place. . .”
    In my heart, I hoped he was right. . .
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  28. #28
    Rampant psychopath Member Olaf Blackeyes's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Applause for you.

    My own personal SLAVE BAND (insert super evil laugh here)
    My balloons:
    My AAR The Story of Souls: A Sweboz AAR
    https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showthread.php?t=109013


    Quote Originally Posted by Dayve View Post
    You're fighting against the AI... how do you NOT win?

  29. #29
    The Naked Rambler Member Roka's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    those pesky norsemen are not to be trusted!

  30. #30

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Quote Originally Posted by Roka View Post
    those pesky norsemen are not to be trusted!
    Never!
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

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