Tir Nan Beo
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We are the children of the Earth. We are the hunters in the forest; we are the voice of nature. We see where sword and chain are blind. We answer where priests are deaf. We walk the path of animals and elements so we might come closer to that what gives us live. We guard the meadows where wyrd resides, were shamans dance their blood fuelled rites and where creatures of the lands roam freely still. We are the Menapii, people of the lands, keepers of its secrets, guardians of its power.

Long has been the winter that swept over these cursed lands. Defilers of the way, destroyers of her voice made come these dreadful years of famine and death. We have seen the cursed blood of these lands flow freely into the ponds of life, killing indiscriminately, as if possessed by wyrd maddening power. We searched and searched for means to end these blackened days, yet were powerless against a curse placed upon us all, by those who use blackened shields. Their actions made Come the black stained rain. Made Come the poisons that filled our rivers, made come the silence of spring. Yet hope emerged when they were gone and when the sun melted new lands from the icy fields that covered these lands for far too long and with the new lands came new rumours. Rumours of Leaders and villains in the east of the lands, fighting over things we have no knowledge of.

Great gods of man have not seen these lands for a very long time. Only small ones, who have helped us stay alive, in these lifeless lands. Water, hunter, Wiseman and Oak have guided us through grey years and unforgiving odds. Animals would not breed here, plants would not grow, yet for every yard we spoke, talked and dreamed for salvation. For every tree we danced and song. Rituals long forgotten we performed round meadows and creeks, learned to us by those who did not abandon us.

Now we look upon these lands and see the spoils of our labour, the gifts of our gods, and the blessings of Nature and now we fear anew. Through melted ice new gates have opened. Mist has begun to move again. We have seen movement in the veil of the morning sun; the lands have begun to breathe again. First silently, even franticly, but now openly and most daring. Nature has begun anew and now, when finally we can live from the scraps of lands we worked so hard for, we hear rumours of trails find to our lands. We hear the footsteps of warriors coming closer and closer and see the fever returning in the peaceful spirits amongst the trees. The Fae look upon us with twisted eyes, where first we saw friendly faces on bark and stone. All is changing. The curse is fighting harder to maintain its purpose. Is clawing wounds in anything it touches. Some things cannot be undone. They can only be challenged by those nature sees fit.

We do not understand anymore. We hear the lands have chosen a new High King, a King renowned in its years as carrier of a blackened shield. We hear songs in its name and bow to his achievements, yet shiver when we think back of the days when the darkness fell upon us. When sickness and death emerged from a blackened shield. When blood flowed of the guardians of the lands. Are we being tricked by dark spirits that slumber in the nights. Have the lands been mistaken to set a cursed man upon a throne of earthly rock. Our shamans dace in the nights, fevered by nightmares and dreams, hoping to see wisdom in the stars and the lands, yet they see nothing.

Our older mothers brew potions and prepare songs so we might please the Fae. They hope to gain some of the friendship we once had, yet in their eyes we see a coming doom. They fill night after night brewing liquids as if they were the witch's other clans call them. Perhaps that is the curse in its new victory. That we might become that, what others fear most? Twisted beings, halve man, halve beast. Creatures of the forest, maddened by tales of Fae and beast, enslaved by old Oaks who seek nothing but death for those who travel past them.

Perhaps this is our faith; perhaps this is what must be done. Perhaps it is our faith to enchant this forest so it may battle those who oppose it, those, who do not understand it, those who do not kneel before it. We are simple creatures, we Menapii. We follow tracks of animals, follow rites of natures and live in seasons set upon us by nature itself. We hunt those who threaten us, kill those who challenge us and curse those who want to change us. We live in natures grasp, relying upon our shamans and our elder mothers. We are no warriors of blood metal, but are fierce as boars and bears. Our arrows are as falling hawks, swopping down from the skies, our weapons are of wood, stone and bone. We know the secrets of the lands and know the doorways to the spirits. We speak the language of the trees and know the songs of the rivers. We are one with these lands, have bled with these lands and have emerged with these lands.

The lands have chosen the new Ard-Ri and we do not question them. He has send one of its champions towards us to lead us, to guide us, yet we do not know him, but what songs have told us. We know he is a warrior, yet we are not like him. We are the voice of the forest; we are the flow of the river. We are the lands…

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