THE DEBATABLE LANDS (IC) [Closed to Sign-ups]

[Reverend Norv]

The old Elliot and the young fled together into the night, their wounds poorly stitched and bleeding. The dark closed in around them, lit neither by candle nor by torch nor by distant hearth-fire. Scudding clouds veiled the stars and moon. A man could scarce see his hand before his eyes, and the Elliots' horses snorted and whickered uncomfortably as they found their footing in the dark. Several times, Rory's gelding - blown by his long galloping fight near the fringes of the battle - stumbled and almost fell.

Neither man could say what time it was, or how long it had been night, or how many more hours might yet remain before the dawn. Unable to see the stars, the Elliots could not be sure even that they were bound for safety; how could a man navigate unless he could behold the heavens? The wind blew slow and biting out of the north, and chilled the wounded reivers to the bone. And somewhere in the blinding dark, very close, the wolves snarled still, and made the Elliots' horses start with fear.

The hours passed. As the two men rode on, they became aware of an odor of rotten eggs, sulfurous and nauseating, that hung upon the night air. Step by step, the smell grew stronger, cloying at the nostrils, adding one more color to the palette of suffering: torn flesh, exhausted muscles, bitter souls, and now this stench.

But after an eternity of struggling onward over hill and dale, the character of the night changed: a faint, pale glow suffused the darkness, heralding the immanence of dawn. It was not light, not quite, but in the grey dimness lay the promise of the far-off winter sun hidden somewhere just over the horizon. And in the distance, the two men could just begin to make out a faint shadow in the night - a pillar of deeper darkness, a shadow against the veiled stars. A tower. Harelaw.

Then the left front hoof of Rory's horse sank into the earth with a wet squelch. A moment later, the other front hoof of Rory's horse went in as well, and then one of the hooves of Kenneth's gelding. The latter gave a dismayed whinny. And then, not a dozen yards in front of the two men, a plume of greenish fire exploded upward in the night, racing heavenward from the earth itself, blinding the Elliots with its sickly brilliance.

The smell of rotten eggs was unbearable. And for a Borderer, that stench - together with the suddenly shifting earth and the burst of spontaneous fire - could mean only one thing.

Rory and Kenneth were stuck in a peat bog. And behind them, growling softly in the darkness, paws treading invisibly upon the trail of the two wounded Elliots' blood - the wolves were closing in.

[Reverend Norv]

Into the woods ran Marcas and Willie.

At first, all went well. The two men kept the wan moonlight at their backs, and they darted quietly from tree to tree. They heard little but their own breath, rasping painfully in their throats, and they stumbled over roots and stones upon the forest floor. Somewhere behind them, the cawing of carrion-birds was audible as the ravens descended to feast upon the battlefield by the Esk. Once, a bat flew out of a hollow tree trunk straight into Wolfen Willie's face, and its soft fur and sharp claws scratched against the Reiver's skin and then were gone.

And ever at the Elliots' heels, now nearer, now further off, was the sound of hoofbeats and hunting horns. The Scott riders made slow headway in the trees; rarely could their torches be seen behind Marcas and Willie, and even then the yellow pinpricks of light were usually far distant. And yet, with preternatural efficiency, the hunters remained upon the Elliots' trail, and the baying of sleuth hounds rang raw and eager in the darkness.

After a long time - an hour? Two? Six? In the darkness it was impossible to say - a pale grey light began to muddy the pitch blackness of the night, and Marcas would see a shadow appear upon the far horizon, blotting out the distant stars: Harelaw. They were almost home. Most of the Scotts pursuing the two men had long since fallen away, but a few clearly remained, and they were gaining upon Marcas and Willie: the baying of the sleuth hounds was louder now, closer, and the low voices of men could even be distinguished.

The two Elliots, racing onward just ahead of their pursuers, now found themselves in a little clearing in the woods. Around them, a dozen or so birch trees stood in a rough circle, their bark gleaming silver in the moonlight. The pursuing Scotts were very close now; Willie could distinctly hear a man's voice give a triumphant cry, and the thunder of hooves seemed to come from just yards behind the two Elliots.

And then a figure stepped out of the shadows of the woods at the little clearing's edge. The newcomer was a very tall man, his arms and legs as big around as a child's waist, his outline blurry in the pre-dawn darkness. He moved with a faint rustling sound, like fallen leaves gliding over one another; his face was in deep shadow. The man raised a finger to his lips, and birchbark gleamed in the moonlight. Then he turned, and pointed at the base of one of the trees of the grove, and Marcas and Wille would see a deep shadow nestled among its roots: a hollow in the earth, almost invisible in the darkness. The perfect hiding place.

The man turned, and vanished once more into the night. Behind the Elliots, the crash of galloping hooves and howling of dogs was almost deafening. Fight, flee, or hide - they had but seconds to decide.

[Reverend Norv]

Those Elliots who had been fortunate enough to make a halfway-organized retreat now rode across the moor and heather in a tight knot, and their quiet voices echoed dully from rock and bracken. Grim Adam had left to scout ahead, and the ringing of his steed's galloping hooves faded into the distance.

"Tae Thomson's niver dae ocht but tae Nixon's lead," Robert was saying, and there was a low chorus of agreement. But White Duncan Elliot had a troubled expression on his long, bony face.

Roger Elliot, slumped in his saddle, turned to his second cousin. "Aye," the old man said softly, "speak your mind."

White Duncan's mouth twisted, and then he shook his head in frustration. "Sure an any Name has a grand dame or twa as could seek the counsel o the Fair Folk," the skinny Reiver said. "But when was the last time we were thus ambushed? I canna recall such a bluidshed as this, not since Harry o England rode north."

"Aye," agreed Hoary Rory. "There's naw greater wise woman on the Border than Mither Lileas, an yet we ne'er received sich warning as the Scotts had this night."

"And they must ha' got word in time ta rally their supporters. Thomsons. Nixons." White Duncan shook his head again. "They must ha known we were coming afore e'er we chose this night for a foray. That's a sight mair than e'er we know, e'en from Mither Lileas."

Red Duncan spat into the bracken. "They will pay the price for this night," he snarled, biting out each word with furious precision. "And for Four-Fingers Tam. And for all the rest. I swear by the rood, they shall pay." The big man struck his thigh once, hard, with a balled fist.

Then he sucked in a deep breath, and turned to Clever Duff. "I am naw yet convinced that the foe's warning this night was women's work," Red Duncan announced briefly. "If ye find ought ta cast doubt upon any man of our Name, let it be known ta me."

Hoary Rory frowned at that, and cast a glance at Robert, but the old man said nothing. Rory's lips pursed and he held his peace.

Duncan cast Hoary Rory a watchful glance, and then he turned to Job and Robert. "We will strike back," he announced. "Hard, and soon. We'll think mair on this at hame."

"But first," Robert Elliot grunted, "I fain would take counsel o' Lileas."

"Aye," agreed Duncan, and if he hesitated, then it was only for a heartbeat.

Abruptly, there was a thunder of galloping hooves, and Grim Adam appeared out of the night, his pony lathered and gasping. The lean man turned, and pointed at the horizon, where the faintest outline of a tower could be seen against the night sky.

"Harelaw," Grim Adam panted. "Harelaw burns."

[Reverend Norv]

The last words of Elspeth's prayer echoed around the tower. Despite everything - the baying of wild men outside, the screams of the Kinmont, the smoke that began to fill the ground floor of Harelaw as the wooden gate kindled and burned - despite it all, a great silence reigned in that stone space. Bluebell Laurie held her hands to her mouth, and tears streaked her cheeks. Young Harry stood back from the door, jaw slack, eyes empty and flat as pebbles.

In the silence, Blind Hamish rose and walked toward the smoke, hands reaching in front of him, following the smell of burning wood. He reached the gate, and turned, and put his back to the smouldering wood, and braced the gate with his body. A moment later, Young Harry gave a small gasp, and followed. Bluebell Laurie turned to give Isobel a heartbroken gaze. "I hope it was worth it," she said simply.

And then, in the distance, came the sound of a horn. And far away in the dark, a single pinprick of golden light appeared - a torch. And then another, and then another, until dozens of torches filled the southern horizon, and the thunder of hooves and baying of sleuth hounds filled the night with noise.

In the clearing outside Harelaw, Kinmont Willie shook his head furiously. "Naw," he snarled, "naw naw naw naw naw!" He drew his sword. "Gie me the amulet," he shrieked. "Gie it me! Gie it me, an the blade, and the grimoire!" One of the Kinmont's men fell back from the burning gate of Harelaw, coughing desperately, and the disnamed Armstrong cut his throat with a backhanded slash; blood sprayed dark in the night. "I canna go on!" Kinmont Willie ran at the gate, and smote its burning timbers with an immense two-handed blow; the whole door shook, and Blind Hamish gave a cry of shock and pain at the impact. "I canna go on!" Willie screamed again. "Ah, Jesu, Jesu ha mercy. Let me go! Let me go!"

The thunder of hooves drew nearer; most of the Kinmont's men were scattering, abandoning the siege of Harelaw and running for their horses. The crackle of musketry shattered the night as the approaching riders - clearly a Hot Trod, for they rode with hooves unmuffled and lit torches - opened fire upon the fleeing brigands. Finally, Kinmont Willie was alone, futilely striking the burning gate of Harelaw over and over again with his sword until finally he fell to his knees, weeping, his shoulders wracked with great heaving sobs of despair. He cast his gaze up to where Moira watched from one of the tower windows, and there was nothing in Willie's eyes but reflected flames.

The moment seemed to go on for a long time. And then the Kinmont rose, suddenly utterly still, and whispered: "Away."

And with that, he turned, and leaped into the saddle, and vanished into the night.

Not a minute later, the riders who had saved the Elliots arrived: hundreds of armored men, brandishing firearms and latches and swords and lit torches, gathered in a rough circle around Harelaw. One of the riders spurred his horse out of the group, and rode into clear view of the tower. He was a tall, lean man, clad in rich fabric beneath his armor: velvet and fur, gleaming in the torchlight. The man cast his gaze around, taking in the scattered bodies of brigands felled by hurled kettles and stones, observing the smouldering timbers of the gate; unattended, the fire lit there was rapidly dying. And then the newcomer raised his chin and glared up at the windows of the ancient tower, and spoke in a voice that rang from its stones like thunder.

"Elliots o Harelaw! I am Thomas Dacre, the Dacre o Carlisle, Warden o the West Marches." The Dacre hawked and spat. "Think ye not that I am come fair ta save ye from the Kinmont. He reived me and mine, and I am come fair ta seek him and hang him in Carlisle Castle high. I care not for the scum o the Debatable Lands."

The nobleman raised a gloved finger. "But I warn ye now, once for all: if e'er I ride hither again, and find Clever Duff Elliot in my son's armor, I shall leave the Kinmont behind and settle for him. That man shall know justice for his crimes. Doubt not: I shall return for Duff, and ye that stand between me and my prey shall pay the price. But if ye bring him to Carlisle Castle, then the Queen's justice shall pass o'er your kin, and ye shall be saved from my wrath." Thomas Dacre spread his hands wide. "What say ye, then? Will ye gie me this murtherer, or naw?"

[Cylarn]

As White Duncan, Red Duncan, and the others discussed the possibility of the Fair Folk being involved in the debacle that had just happened in Scott territory, Job quietly listened as he took occasional sips from the clay jug that he had discovered. The powerful supernatural elements that influenced the world had existed much more than the realm that they interacted with, and there were those of the fairer sex that could see past the barriers that obscured the Fair Folk from the common mortal. Mither Lileas - quite possibly the most accomplished witch in the Debatable Lands - was just one member of a powerful, unique group. A dangerous ability to hold as well; the Fair Folk were notorious for their actions towards humanity. However, a select few could harness the unnatural power of the Fair Folk - at a price.

His wounds and body ached; the breastplate was useless, and its weight now proved to be a detriment. He placed the jug on his lap and went for his handaxe, drawing out the weapon and twirling it in his hand before firmly gripping the head in his hand. With several short motions, he cut the breastplate's leather straps free, and the two plates fell to the ground, clanging as they hit the rocks and leaving only his leather doublet for protection. He gave a breath of relief as the weight on his shoulders diminished, just in time as a very grim man - grimly named Grim Adam - returned with an equally grim message. The warrior looked towards his rather grim cousin, his face conforming into a grim expression as Grim Adam recounted the grim scene that he had witnessed. He looked towards his brother, and he slipped his handaxe back into his belt. The night had just grown to be much more than a spate of bad luck, and the warrior allowed the jug to drop to the ground and shatter. His right hand took to his snaphance, the butt adjusted to rest on his right leg as the barrel pointed upward towards the dark sky.

"No..." he said with a dour tone of voice, before looking towards Harelaw with his intense glare focusing on his home. "Is this the end?"

Suddenly, just after he announced the grim possibility over the overnight destruction of Clan Elliot, the sounds of battle soon filled the air. Torches could be seen in the distance, though faint. Job's eyes then went back to his brother, looking him directly in the eyes as his hands tightened on the weapon.

"Can we go home now?"

[Aurinsula]

All through the horrors outside the door, Isobel was perfectly silent. She knew the price, and she knew the merchandise. There was nothing for her to say. To Elspeth's weeping, she had no answer. The old woman was kind to her, and the loss was like a little piece of her heart torn from her chest. She wanted to weep as well; she wanted to scream. But in this, as in all her life, she bore the cost and she shunned no pain. Hers was a face of stone.

When the quiet came outside, and Kinmot Willie was finally driven away, only then could she address Bluebell Laurie's discomfort. The first thing she did was slap the other woman in the face, as hard as she could, hard enough to knock her down. Then she gave a huff.

"Clearly, it was." She had to put on a face of bravado, she had to. If she didn't, she'd fall apart. Then she moved out to address the Warden.

"Well met, Thomas Dacre of Carlisle. I am Isobel Elliot. Though it may not have been your aim, you nevertheless were a great deliverance to us, and we thank you for it nonetheless. Duff Elliot, who is called the Clever, is not here; he has ridden out on his own business. When he returns, we will give him your message."

[Evraim]

It was too terrible to bear. Mither Lileas lay like a straw-doll upon the floor, her eyes lifeless, her lips blue, as blood trickled from her wounds like a mist over the moors. Outside, the Kinmont was howling more fiercely than all the denizens of Hell, bellowing orders and spine-chilling threats in an intermittent, crazed fashion. Fiona could just detect the scent of smoke rising to her nostrils, as tears stung her eyes. Moira was hurling insults and chamber pots and kettles down on the assailants, while a few of her kin stumbled forward to barricade the door. It would all be for naught, though, despite her own brave words, despite Mither Lileas's assurances, the bastel house would succumb. When dawn came, it would bring only lamentations and cries of anguish.

Thar lies a dagger o'er yon, a somber voice told her, as quiet as that of an elf, Tis o guid mak and o caller airn for tae brog ma bosom. Wha can mark hou reid ma bluid sall flow? Wha can spak tae Duff and tell him hou bitterly I bemoan this weird o mine? I wad rather tae hae woned aside him for a wee bit. I wad rather... Subconsciously, Fiona's delicate hands inched closer to the makeshift weapon that had been flung from a table amid the commotion, even as her gaze fell upon Lileas's small, shriveled form. It would be so easy to follow her now. A swift thrust, and she would escape the torments that awaited them when the reivers swarmed into the bastel house. Thinking about it was impossible. The thought of those violent men tearing their clothes off, yanking their eyes from their skulls, and doing other things... Na. Ye can nae bide sich thoughts, she told herself, Ye can nae. I did mak an oath wi Duff. I did spak the words.

Dragging herself to her feet, Fiona shrieked once, as loudly as she could, hoping to regain her composure and compensate with madness what she lacked in courage. The sound was lost to the din of the siege and the sorrow of the Elliots, the crash of tables against walls, the rattle of blades against shields down below, the frantic footsteps and shouts. These swallowed up her voice even as they had swallowed up everything else. Gingerly, almost shyly, Fiona grasped a pot in an awkward embrace and teetered at the edge of a window. Then, she numbly dropped it, stepping back with a sense of relief. The monstrous metal container collided with the grounds, just missing the booted foot of a reiver, whose expression told of his alarm. Then, Fiona knew nothing. The world was a jumble of flying cauldrons, smoke, and yowls, all witnessed through a screen of acrid tears. Whitfor can I nae hold ma tears? she wondered, faintly feeling her cheeks blush.

Then, her strength gave out, and she slumped into a pile, drinking in the whispered prayers of her kinsmen. Blood stained her bottom lip. I must hae nippled it whilst I screamed, the girl realized apathetically. It didn't matter. Lileas was dead, and they would follow. Her recognition of this truth stung. Even her indignation couldn't hide it. There would be no more bursts of energy, there would be no more struggling, and, worst of all, there would be no more Harelaw. She would never again hear Blind Hamish's tales of olden days, as they sat around the warm hearth. She would never again learn the mysteries of the Fair Folk from Mither Lileas under a wizened oak. She would never again talk theology Joseph or Thomas. She would never again heed Red Duncan's barks for this or that ballad when she held a harp at her breast. She would never again clutch Duff, the person she loved above all else, close or kiss his cheek as he left their home.

Fiona felt herself trembling, sobbing, more like a frightened child than the woman she had claimed to be since her eighth year of life. I'm such a coward, she lamented, covering her eyes with a blanket of golden hair, Whitfor can nae I be mair like Moira or Mither Lileas? Witfor can nae I pass wi dignity? Without thinking, she knew the answer. Because I yearn tae dae sae much mair. Sae much mair. Resolving to at least pretend to possess bravery, Fiona cradled two of her younger cousins who were moaning quietly to themselves, pressing their snot-drenched faces against her skirts and covering their heads with her own. "Be still," she whispered sweetly, "Be still, ma wee bairnies. Sall I sing a ballat for ye?"

For what seemed like forever, a terrible silence reigned. Then, like the crashing of a great wave, the call of a horn shattered the minuscule, fear-tinged world that Fiona had inhabited. Time passed quickly then, far more quickly than the girl had ever known. Lights flooded the moors. Hae the Kinmont set oor hame alight? she wondered at first, until the reivers came into view, splendind in their panoply. And, like a flash of lightning, Willie Armstrong was gone, leaving one to wonder if he had ever been there at all or if what had been observed was but a nightmare sent to torment the Elliots by some spiteful Fair One. The scents of burning wood and iron-like blood broke this wishful fantasy, even as the reivers had come close to breaking their gates. We are delivered, she wanted to shout, but instead she sauntered calmly towards the window to glance upon their stiff-necked savior, the Dacre of Carlisle.

"Oh, Dacre o Carlisle, I humbly beseech ye tae attend my words. I am called Fiona Elliot," she said to the imposing Warden of the Western Marches in as regal a tone as she could muster in the circumstances, "I am sister tae the man ye woul' name a murtherer, and whom ye woul' fancy hang high o'er the walls o Carlisle fair tae sate your anger at the wanton deith o your son." Fiona's head was held high, but the look she gave to the Dacre was pleading. "Guid, sir," Fiona murmured, "Prithee, I beseech ye tae birrie this feud sae that we sall lay nae mair wi their forefaithers 'fore thare due tame. If ye, oh Dacre o Carlisle, woul' treat wi ma brither and I, I ken that we coul' come tae an accord that woul' atone for the deith o your son. Whit say ye?"

Despite her best efforts, Fiona knew that she looked more like a snot-nosed little girl who had just finished weeping than a prestigious matriarch of the Disputed Lands. Her sun-kissed hair was disheveled and soiled by soot and bits of stew and meat. Her skirt was stained with snot, tears, and blood. She had scratches on her arms, hands, and fingers from carrying heavy pots and kettles to the window. Tears still flowed down her raw cheeks. Still, it was worth a try.

[Occupied Deutschland]

[edited for time & space]...
The man turned, and vanished once more into the night. Behind the Elliots, the crash of galloping hooves and howling of dogs was almost deafening. Fight, flee, or hide - they had but seconds to decide.

Marcas had frozen and nearly felt his heart stop beating at the sight of the man. The Green Man. In all his years of travel in the respectable venue of the Elliot lands, an encounter such as this with him or another such fae had been the constant fear in the back of his mind. A terrible thought he had never acknowledged, even to himself, but which had always been the first one to arise whenever a shadow had seemed to move at the edge of his vision at dawn or dusk. Or whenever he'd recalled a grove or outcropping that looked vaguely different than it had a previous day. Even the washer-woman had not evoked the same cold-blooded worry in him. At least seeing her there had still been a definite sense that she was intruding on the land of humans. But here, the situation was very much reversed.

Marcas was no little amount prideful of the Elliot lands that were their home. But he had always tried to be aware, and was now very obviously reminded, of those from the Otherworld who also called it by the same name. But now it was he who was intruding upon their home just as surely as the Scotts may soon be at Harelaw.

Which made him incredibly relieved in the next moment when the Green Man did not immediately smash them, and instead seemed to offer a modicum of support. By any way Marcas could imagine it they were the ones trespassing, and the Reiver manner of dealing with such people was decidedly less...accommodating. He could only offer a silent prayer of thanks to the Heavens above that this Fae did not share their sentiment.

Finishing the prayer, Marcas had tried to offer a nod of thanks to their Fae helper, but found himself directing the action at naught but darkness. Was the spirit-creature gone?

One of the Scott hounds bayed behind him and Willie, and Marcas was suddenly brought out of his stupor with a jerk as if waking from a sleep. There was little chance he would be able to understand the workings of the Otherworld. 'Twould be good enough to take advantage of them when offered. Besides, he wouldn't want to insult the spirit by declining its help. Nor, he could not help adding, would he want to anger him by killing any of the Scotts pursuing them in what could only seem to be the spirit's home. It would not be...properly respectful.

"Willie, C'mon!" Marcas said quickly even as he pulled the other man towards the hollow. Marcas had no idea if they even could take the pursuing Scotts in a fight. It was hard to pin down how many there were by the hoof-beats and hounds alone. The last time they hadn't listened to advice offered by the spirits, however, the attack on the Scotts had ended in this. Marcas did not want to make the same mistake again.

Sliding into the hollow and curling up in it to await fate, Marcas realized that trusting the Green Man could be a mistake of its own. But what was there to lose? The Scotts would surely kill them. The Green Man only might. It was the best chance Marcas saw.

"Stay down and don't make a sound. I worry over what happens were that thing ta get angry for we dirtied its home with Scott blood." Marcas whispered at Willie, concerned the man's bloodlust may ruin their chances of escape.

The hounds bayed again, and the galloping beat of the horses got even more intense. It wasn't long now. Marcas could only hope Willie would control himself.

[Nature-Spirits]

Elspeth was deaf, blind, and anosmic to the world around her. Her sole focus was Lileas -- rather, Lileas's empty corpse. The Widow cradled her friend's head in her lap, rocking back and forth as she stared into those beautiful, empty eyes. Tears flowed from her own eyes, she knew, like rivers upon the ridged landscape of the Border, but she made no attempt to quell them. A yawning chasm had opened in her chest, the emotional scars from the two other calamities of her life reopened.

Three calamities. Was three not a magical number? It was the number of gifts given to Christ by the Magi; it was the number of persons of the Trinity; it was the number of times the Green Wolf bayed before finally killing its prey. It was sometimes said that fortune -- along with her counterpart, misfortune -- was threefold.

Lileas's last words echoed in Elspeth's head, and she whispered them to herself, shuttering her eyelids: "When the dawn comes, the shellycoats will show ye the way. The bastle house is built o' skulls." The old woman suppressed a shudder; the words held some hidden meaning, she knew, but it was one which would take time to uncover.

Time that she could not afford to expend at present.

Her eyes flew open then, and the world came flooding back into her field of awareness. Lileas may have been gone, but she had not sacrificed her life so that Elspeth could sit over her body in mourning while the Elliots burned. She had sacrificed her life to save them, and to disregard that wish would be an affront to her. Elspeth needed to take a stand.

She was vaguely aware of Bluebell Laurie saying something which she did not process, then of the distant sound of a horn. Soon enough, the sound of hoofbeats and barking hounds was audible, and she smiled a small, wan smile, for while she did not know who it was approaching Harelaw, the old witch suspected that Lileas had something to do with it. She slowly moved her friend's head and shoulders back onto the cold floor of the tower and moved her hand over the other woman's face to close her eyelids over those lifeless eyes. If only one could forget about the dagger and the blood, it would almost appear as though the Mither was asleep. "Thank ye, Lileas," she whispered. "I pray ye are at peace in Heven."

Then she stood and went to the window, where she could see the Kinmont fall to his knees in despair. But she found her eyes drawn to the horizon, where there were dozens of lit torches -- a Hot Trod, she could clearly see now. Her brow furrowed as she wondered who it could possibly be, but her eyes went once again to Kinmont Willie as he stood, turned, and leaped upon his horse. She spat out the window after him, cold, glistening green eyes following the figure until it vanished completely into the dark.

Then, before she could identify the riders -- though at their distance she could tell that they were not of Debatable Land stock --, Elspeth heard a slap resonate around the tower, and turned to see that Bluebell Laurie had been hit by Isobel. Eyes widening in rage, the old woman rushed to Laurie and put a hand on her back, shushing her -- perhaps harsher than she intended. In the background she could hear the Dacre addressing the Elliots in the Tower, and tuned one ear to his words.

So. He wanted one of their own. She could not say that she was surprised, if she thought about it. She did not care much for Clever Duff -- he may have had his wits about him much more than other men, but she did not know him well. Besides, he was a man.

And, Lord forgive the poor woman, she could not bring herself to care about much at all in her present state. All she could do was look to Isobel and glare as the young woman spoke to the Dacre, stoney-faced. Impassive, as though Lileas had not died but minutes ago; as though all was well.

She would kill the bitch.

Elspeth rose to her full height -- which, admittedly, was much shorter than Isobel's -- and marched up to the woman, reaching up from behind and grasping the younger woman's hair by the roots, pulling down to bring Isobel down to her level. "Ye..." she began, rage bubbling up once again, overtaking her. Her green eyes bored into Isobel's own, and she cried out, "Ye gumgal'd little putane! Truckling! Camow-nosed hoglyn! Ye go on havin' the Mither kill hersel, then ye dar strick Bluebell Laurie, an' then -- then! -- ye dar ta spek on oor Name's behalf?! Nae! Nae, I say! Nae! Ye sallt naw --" She broke off, her words catching in her throat, and sneered before continuing, trying desperately to hold back more tears. "This usurpery sall naw go on! I haf age far beyond tha o' yer own; I am superlatif! Ye are but a laich beside me, fer I am Auld Wedo Elspeth, and ye are but a bairnie!"

She let go of Isobel then, turning away from the woman, and advanced, gazing upon the Dacre. The edges of her eyes glimmered with suppressed crying, and her face was streaked with dark blood and tears. Her hands and arms were robed in the thick liquid, and stains were already drying on her ash grey dress, the red leafy embroidery obscured by her friend's lifeblood. "Dacre o' Carlisle!" she called, voice trembling. She swallowed an aching lump in her throat, and continued, voice steadier now, "Tha man knawin as Clever is indeed naw here. An yow wiss ta bespeke ous, yow sallt do sae wi me allane. But ken this: quhat the lass," she glanced to Fiona, whose speech she had heard in the background when considering Isobel, "says may be hieland, but yow sallt consider her words."

[Reverend Norv]

Bluebell Laurie fell to the ground with a cry of pain, hands clasped to her cheek, staring at Isobel with the shock and confusion of an injured child. Young Harry ran to her side, and got there at about the same time as Elspeth. The old widow quieted Laurie, but left her sniffling with pain and humiliation. Young Harry gingerly patted her on the shoulder. Blind Hamish, head cocked as he listened to the sequence of events, shook his head and snorted mockingly.

Meanwhile, Thomas Dacre gazed back and forth between the three faces that had appeared at the windows of Harelaw, and shook his head with a weary smile. He turned to one of his men. "Women," the Dacre observed. "They canna e'en agree on how ta answer a plain questioun." A ripple of rough laughter rose from the Dacre reivers.

Their leader turned back to the tower, and clasped his hands upon his saddle-pommel. "My message was naw fair Clever Duff. Twas fair ye." The Dacre nodded, with only a heartbeat of superstitious hesitation, at the bloodstained and soot-streaked figure of Elspeth. "If ye wald speak fair yowr Name, then ye must answer for whether ye shall gie me this murtherer or nae." The big nobleman's turned his eyes upon Fiona, and his voice softened. "For though I ha nae wish for ta bring mair death tae yowr kin, lass, nor can I let the deith o mine ain son gaw unavenged. There's naw atonement fair bluid but by bluid."

Abruptly, the Dacre drew rein and walked his horse back, away from the tower. "But as my prey lies not wi'in yon walls, I sall naw tarry. If ye would avert mair bluidshed, and keep yowr kin safe from the Queen's wrath, then ye know what ye must do. Bring Clever Duff Elliot to Carlisle, and all will be well. Do it naw, and yowr fate lies in yowr ain twa hands."

With that, Thomas Dacre gave a sharp nod to his men and pointed north, the direction in which most of the Kinmont's men had fled. The sleuth hounds bayed wildly, and the Hot Trod thundered off once more in a cloud of dust of and blaze of torches. In minutes, the last of the riders had vanished over the crest of the moors, and the Elliots were alone in their smoldering tower in the pale pre-dawn light.

[Nationstatelandsville]

The old Elliot and the young fled together into the night, their wounds poorly stitched and bleeding. The dark closed in around them, lit neither by candle nor by torch nor by distant hearth-fire. Scudding clouds veiled the stars and moon. A man could scarce see his hand before his eyes, and the Elliots' horses snorted and whickered uncomfortably as they found their footing in the dark. Several times, Rory's gelding - blown by his long galloping fight near the fringes of the battle - stumbled and almost fell.

Neither man could say what time it was, or how long it had been night, or how many more hours might yet remain before the dawn. Unable to see the stars, the Elliots could not be sure even that they were bound for safety; how could a man navigate unless he could behold the heavens? The wind blew slow and biting out of the north, and chilled the wounded reivers to the bone. And somewhere in the blinding dark, very close, the wolves snarled still, and made the Elliots' horses start with fear.

The hours passed. As the two men rode on, they became aware of an odor of rotten eggs, sulfurous and nauseating, that hung upon the night air. Step by step, the smell grew stronger, cloying at the nostrils, adding one more color to the palette of suffering: torn flesh, exhausted muscles, bitter souls, and now this stench.

But after an eternity of struggling onward over hill and dale, the character of the night changed: a faint, pale glow suffused the darkness, heralding the immanence of dawn. It was not light, not quite, but in the grey dimness lay the promise of the far-off winter sun hidden somewhere just over the horizon. And in the distance, the two men could just begin to make out a faint shadow in the night - a pillar of deeper darkness, a shadow against the veiled stars. A tower. Harelaw.

Then the left front hoof of Rory's horse sank into the earth with a wet squelch. A moment later, the other front hoof of Rory's horse went in as well, and then one of the hooves of Kenneth's gelding. The latter gave a dismayed whinny. And then, not a dozen yards in front of the two men, a plume of greenish fire exploded upward in the night, racing heavenward from the earth itself, blinding the Elliots with its sickly brilliance.

The smell of rotten eggs was unbearable. And for a Borderer, that stench - together with the suddenly shifting earth and the burst of spontaneous fire - could mean only one thing.

Rory and Kenneth were stuck in a peat bog. And behind them, growling softly in the darkness, paws treading invisibly upon the trail of the two wounded Elliots' blood - the wolves were closing in.

"By the Devil's own cock!" Iron Kenneth cursed, leaning back on his horse, "I tell ye, these bastard Scotts have made covenant wi Satan or some other dark and foul beast. The earth is against us. Will-o'-the-wisps and hellhounds, save us Christ!"

Kenneth grit his teeth and blinked heavily; stress was bad for his wound, as it made even more blood gush out, and already his vision was beginning to fray and blur. Passing out here in this bog, with wolves at his ass, that was death. His adrenaline faltered, and with it, all sense of alertness and hope of waking.

But, no. No, he wouldn't surrender, not now.

Kenneth breathed out heavily, once, twice, and counted down from five - five, four, three, two, one. An old trick to calm yourself done; some uncle or such had taught him that, a black, angry man who could hardly control himself. Perhaps, when he returned to Harelaw, Kenneth would teach Red Duncan. Or kill him - one or the other.

First, though, was the returning. Kenneth brushed his horse's fur; the old gelding was beyond reason, and not even his trust in his rider would bring him back from that. That was bad, perhaps even fatal - panic would only drag it down, and Kenneth needed the horse to get home. The gelding was dead - too far gone to work its way out. But maybe Rory's horse was not.

"Rory, lad," Kenneth said, his voice low and dark, "I need ye to pull me over onto your horse. Either that, or leave me ta die. I can't get across on this damned thing."

Kenneth frowned, "The wolves ought ta sort themselves. Either they follow us into the bog and die, or leave us be at its edge."

Unless they really are the Devil's, Kenneth thought to himself, but then there's no escaping at all. Five, four, three, two, one. Best not share that theory with Rory.

[Rupudska]

Bluebell Laurie fell to the ground with a cry of pain, hands clasped to her cheek, staring at Isobel with the shock and confusion of an injured child. Young Harry ran to her side, and got there at about the same time as Elspeth. The old widow quieted Laurie, but left her sniffling with pain and humiliation. Young Harry gingerly patted her on the shoulder. Blind Hamish, head cocked as he listened to the sequence of events, shook his head and snorted mockingly.

Meanwhile, Thomas Dacre gazed back and forth between the three faces that had appeared at the windows of Harelaw, and shook his head with a weary smile. He turned to one of his men. "Women," the Dacre observed. "They canna e'en agree on how ta answer a plain questioun." A ripple of rough laughter rose from the Dacre reivers.

Their leader turned back to the tower, and clasped his hands upon his saddle-pommel. "My message was naw fair Clever Duff. Twas fair ye." The Dacre nodded, with only a heartbeat of superstitious hesitation, at the bloodstained and soot-streaked figure of Elspeth. "If ye wald speak fair yowr Name, then ye must answer for whether ye shall gie me this murtherer or nae." The big nobleman's turned his eyes upon Fiona, and his voice softened. "For though I ha nae wish for ta bring mair death tae yowr kin, lass, nor can I let the deith o mine ain son gaw unavenged. There's naw atonement fair bluid but by bluid."

Abruptly, the Dacre drew rein and walked his horse back, away from the tower. "But as my prey lies not wi'in yon walls, I sall naw tarry. If ye would avert mair bluidshed, and keep yowr kin safe from the Queen's wrath, then ye know what ye must do. Bring Clever Duff Elliot to Carlisle, and all will be well. Do it naw, and yowr fate lies in yowr ain twa hands."

With that, Thomas Dacre gave a sharp nod to his men and pointed north, the direction in which most of the Kinmont's men had fled. The sleuth hounds bayed wildly, and the Hot Trod thundered off once more in a cloud of dust of and blaze of torches. In minutes, the last of the riders had vanished over the crest of the moors, and the Elliots were alone in their smoldering tower in the pale pre-dawn light.

For a very long time, it seemed like Moira would unleash the wrathful words of God Himself upon the Dacre. And for a very long time, she thought about doing it. She even stuck her head out the tower window to look down upon the Dacre and his kin. In the end, and much to the surprise of the others, she declined to say a word. No, she had seen enough bloodshed and rage for one night, and she was in no mood to provoke more.

"Mey yowr horses get stuck in a bog," she muttered to nobody in particular. An mey that green wolf catch ye therein.

"Rory, lad," Kenneth said, his voice low and dark, "I need ye to pull me over onto your horse. Either that, or leave me ta die. I can't get across on this damned thing."

Kenneth frowned, "The wolves ought ta sort themselves. Either they follow us into the bog and die, or leave us be at its edge."

Unless they really are the Devil's, Kenneth thought to himself, but then there's no escaping at all. Five, four, three, two, one. Best not share that theory with Rory.

"Erm... aye," Rory said, a bit unsure if his own horse could handle the weight of Kenneth. Sure, it was young and strong, but it wasn't strong enough for the two of them, probably. He wasn't sure one way or the other.

He slid himself as far forward as he could in order to make room for Kenneth, then moved his horse over and offered a hand to the elder Elliot.

I just hope we don't end up sinking, too.

[Nationstatelandsville]

Bluebell Laurie fell to the ground with a cry of pain, hands clasped to her cheek, staring at Isobel with the shock and confusion of an injured child. Young Harry ran to her side, and got there at about the same time as Elspeth. The old widow quieted Laurie, but left her sniffling with pain and humiliation. Young Harry gingerly patted her on the shoulder. Blind Hamish, head cocked as he listened to the sequence of events, shook his head and snorted mockingly.

Meanwhile, Thomas Dacre gazed back and forth between the three faces that had appeared at the windows of Harelaw, and shook his head with a weary smile. He turned to one of his men. "Women," the Dacre observed. "They canna e'en agree on how ta answer a plain questioun." A ripple of rough laughter rose from the Dacre reivers.

Their leader turned back to the tower, and clasped his hands upon his saddle-pommel. "My message was naw fair Clever Duff. Twas fair ye." The Dacre nodded, with only a heartbeat of superstitious hesitation, at the bloodstained and soot-streaked figure of Elspeth. "If ye wald speak fair yowr Name, then ye must answer for whether ye shall gie me this murtherer or nae." The big nobleman's turned his eyes upon Fiona, and his voice softened. "For though I ha nae wish for ta bring mair death tae yowr kin, lass, nor can I let the deith o mine ain son gaw unavenged. There's naw atonement fair bluid but by bluid."

Abruptly, the Dacre drew rein and walked his horse back, away from the tower. "But as my prey lies not wi'in yon walls, I sall naw tarry. If ye would avert mair bluidshed, and keep yowr kin safe from the Queen's wrath, then ye know what ye must do. Bring Clever Duff Elliot to Carlisle, and all will be well. Do it naw, and yowr fate lies in yowr ain twa hands."

With that, Thomas Dacre gave a sharp nod to his men and pointed north, the direction in which most of the Kinmont's men had fled. The sleuth hounds bayed wildly, and the Hot Trod thundered off once more in a cloud of dust of and blaze of torches. In minutes, the last of the riders had vanished over the crest of the moors, and the Elliots were alone in their smoldering tower in the pale pre-dawn light.

For a very long time, it seemed like Moira would unleash the wrathful words of God Himself upon the Dacre. And for a very long time, she thought about doing it. She even stuck her head out the tower window to look down upon the Dacre and his kin. In the end, and much to the surprise of the others, she declined to say a word. No, she had seen enough bloodshed and rage for one night, and she was in no mood to provoke more.

"Mey yowr horses get stuck in a bog," she muttered to nobody in particular. An mey that green wolf catch ye therein.

"Rory, lad," Kenneth said, his voice low and dark, "I need ye to pull me over onto your horse. Either that, or leave me ta die. I can't get across on this damned thing."

Kenneth frowned, "The wolves ought ta sort themselves. Either they follow us into the bog and die, or leave us be at its edge."

Unless they really are the Devil's, Kenneth thought to himself, but then there's no escaping at all. Five, four, three, two, one. Best not share that theory with Rory.

"Erm... aye," Rory said, a bit unsure if his own horse could handle the weight of Kenneth. Sure, it was young and strong, but it wasn't strong enough for the two of them, probably. He wasn't sure one way or the other.

He slid himself as far forward as he could in order to make room for Kenneth, then moved his horse over and offered a hand to the elder Elliot.

I just hope we don't end up sinking, too.

Kenneth took Rory's hand and shifted forward, taking a sharp breath in as his wound stretched and the stitches with it. By some luck or divine intervention, however, they managed to stay intact as he moved from the panicking mare to Rory's horse, sitting behind the younger man. Regardless, Kenneth now had turned pale and weak, slumping forward onto Rory's back. The world around him, he could barely perceive, full of shadows and screams he could not find purpose in.

"Harelaw," was all he said as he fell into some waking unconsciousness, his breath smelling of iron and salt.