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

[Rupudska]

*snip*

Were Moira capable, she would have been moved to tears by the speech Fiona made. Instead, clapping sufficed. Five times she clapped, as she felt that was enough. Largely because Rory was starting to give her that 'you'll-get-yourself-in-trouble' look. Such looks were almost always followed by a scolding if they got any more intense than Rory's was at that time. And she hated that. So five sufficed.

"Thank ye, Fiona, fuir sayin' whit we aw were thinkin'."

[Evraim]

Fiona yanks away from Willie's touch, glaring venomously at her cousin. She has a baleful look for Robert too. The girl is formulating a retort when she catches sight of Duff, his fingers creeping towards his thigh. In an instant, her priorities change from confronting the miscreant who has violated the guest right to protecting the brother she loves above all else. If this argument comes to blows, Willie will have the advantage. Despite his moral failings and his stupidity, the man has grown accustomed to killing, not to mention quite skilled, honing murder to an art form. Duff doesn't even stand a chance. Straining to compose herself, Fiona shifts inconspicuously, hoping that Willie will be so distracted by her that he won't realize the situation.

Then, a piercing keen punctures the pregnant silence. Maisie, Fiona knows at once, Her madness hae descended like a corbie ta the bluid-spattered ben. The girl's glance seems apologetic. She takes a step, ponders, and then sets her feet back solidly on the ground. I canna dae anthing for ta give her succor, she tells herself, I who did caw fairth the spirits who pine o'er her wi ma musings o deith. Fiona thus stands, watching helpless, as her grandmother tends to her cousin. She hates doing nothing, hates it almost as much as she hates the Scott of Buccleuch. "Ye ride ta deith?" Fiona repeats to herself.

Furtively, the girl peers back towards her brother, letting her eyes trace about the room in a clandestine fashion, pausing over Willie, Robert, Robert's wife, Iron Kenneth, Red Duncan, Job, Maisie, Elspeth, and all the rest. "Ye ride ta deith," she says again, her tone so soft that none but those within a few inches can hear. Her voice is mournful as the patter of spring drizzle, and her eyes, which had been fiery moments before, have a distraught gleam in them. Na, she reflects, Na hale man rides ta deith o his oon strae will. Hou wad he? Tis mair sweet ta sit by the emmers o the hearth, ta hold his bairn ta his chest, ta harkon ta the melody o the harp. Yit, tis true that deith rides ta us. Prithee, God, hae him plunk ootwi some oother haw, else hae his cuddie cowp in the muir for a wee span. I canna thole ta forfeit anthing that ye hae given ta me. Na ma brither, na ma grannie, na any o the name o Elliot. Yit, I am a-feared that deith is riding athort the gate ta Harelaw.

Fiona shivers violently, drawing a shallow, painful breath. The air feels cold, as though winter had engulfed the hall in its frigid embrace. Fiona can feel her lips trembling as fear overwhelms her. Joseph has never given any credence to tales of prophesy or Alfhame, but the women of Clan Elliot knew of secrets and mysteries that few others could recall. Mither Lileas has often said that the Folk dwell within tall trees, their dark leaves glistening with dew as the sun rises, in deep, dank caves, gaping like the many maws of the Earth itself, and in the twilight mists that sometimes fell across the moors. One could catch a sight of the Green Wolf prowling the glens of the countryside or the Washer-at-the-Ford toiling amid the rills that crisscrossed the Border like shining silver if caution was thrown to the wind. Even a child should know as much.

Completely engrossed with these morbid thoughts, Fiona never hears Moira's praise. Instead, she furtively wraps brother's hand with her own dainty fingers, clutching so tightly that they turn bone white. She intends this to distract him from his weapon, but also to ensure that he keeps his vow. "Promise me that ye sall na tarry by any carse throu the Gloamin," Fiona implores Duff in a whisper, "Prithee, brither, grant me your word, for baith I and mither sall greet wi'oot rest if ye ne'er come hame ta us. I canna..." She lets the sentence hang, like those four men whom she had loved so well had hung two years past, in poignant stillness. Her spirit is a raven, a watcher on the willow, ravenous for an answer to its mocking caws, thirsting for the raw popping of its jaws over tendons. Come hame ta me, brither, her eyes plea.

[Cylarn]

The argument with Iron Kenneth was soon brought to a close, but not before he heard Fiona's condemnation of Willie's actions, which he did not witness. It was an error on his part for not noticing Willie murdering the boy, but he couldn't beat himself up over it. He looked over at Willie, a look of pure disgust upon his face. His eyes shifted to the body of the boy, and then back to Willie's eyes. Willie's laughter only strengthened Job's dislike of the brigand, and made the idea of disnaming Willie sound ever sweeter. Before he could offer his own condemnation, an unholy shout stopped him in his tracks, and he jumped a bit as he turned to confront the sound, his right hand going down to grasp the handle of his sword as he turned to see that it was Maisie, though he was still somewhat shaken. The sound - for whatever reason - struck him as an unholy, demonic sort, which invoked his fear of demons.

The mood had suddenly changed. Most were now focused on Maisie, of whom many believed to be influenced by some supernatural force. Job simply looked on at Maisie, contemplating her words before he shook them away. He couldn't focus on the girl's ravings; their honor was at stake, Willie had just murdered a guest, and further delay would only further tarnish the family's image. For Job, getting back on task was one of the few ways that he could free his mind from thinking of demons, which only exacerbated his fear. He slowly dropped his hand, and returned to his normal stance. His eyes shifted over to Willie, and his glare returned. He motioned to the boy's lifeless body, before making his condemnation known to the rest of his Name.

"Why do you spill blood in tha chambers of our Name, Willie?" Job asked, raising his voice for all to hear. "That boy was a guest here; killin' him has brought shame upon us. Everythin' you have done has brought shame upon our Name, and I am ashamed to call you my kin."

[Occupied Deutschland]

One argument ends and anither begins. Marcas thought, heaving a sigh as his gaze floated between Willie, Job and Fiona. He spared one concerned gaze at Maisie. Was common knowledge the woman was either extraordinarily gifted as a seer, or truly doolally. The frightening part about the Otherworld and the second sight was you were never sure which was which, and both all too often rode the same steed into battle. Well could be the visions of the realms of the fair folk were enough to drive a person mad. It was damn near enough to do so just witnessing the faeries themselves. Plenty of men didn't even like discussions concerning the spirit folk. Too easy to call their attention to ye.

Marcas unconsciously glared around him at the walls of the tower, uncomfortably reminded by his train of thought of their presence. Supposedly a protection from the likes of the Green Wolf and other malicious spirits that haunted the lands in the nighttime. Supposedly. What regard did the fair folk have for human walls? Twas like praying for a meal everyday until ye starved to death, erecting walls for protection from the faeries. Maisie alone was evidence enough they didn't offer any shield except comfort. If she was speaking of them and not just daft in the head.

Marcas would rather err on the side of canniness. In terms of the Otherworld and practical matters. Course, that just left the matter of what was canniness in this instance. Maisie's screaming could be a warning of dark tidings to befall the Elliots if they rode against the Scotts, or a mere observation of what would occur on the raid. They were aiming to kill a number of Scotts after all.

Or it could be Maisie's rock-touched head wandering into a green fen that couldn't be tamed.

Marcas shook his head at the contradictions of the Otherworld once again, fighting the mental aggravation and pain that arose from trying to puzzle out the blasted business. That he would leave up to the women...Or wait until Maisie could be coaxed into providing a more coherent message. If the spirits urged a haud back from vengeance...He was nae certain what to think of it. The fair folk were not to be trifled with lightly, but the blood feud against the Scotts had gone unpaid too long as well. Did not even the fair folk understand blood for blood?

The argument with Iron Kenneth was soon brought to a close, but not before he heard Fiona's condemnation of Willie's actions, which he did not witness. It was an error on his part for not noticing Willie murdering the boy, but he couldn't beat himself up over it. He looked over at Willie, a look of pure disgust upon his face. His eyes shifted to the body of the boy, and then back to Willie's eyes. Willie's laughter only strengthened Job's dislike of the brigand, and made the idea of disnaming Willie sound ever sweeter. Before he could offer his own condemnation, an unholy shout stopped him in his tracks, and he jumped a bit as he turned to confront the sound, his right hand going down to grasp the handle of his sword as he turned to see that it was Maisie, though he was still somewhat shaken. The sound - for whatever reason - struck him as an unholy, demonic sort, which invoked his fear of demons.

The mood had suddenly changed. Most were now focused on Maisie, of whom many believed to be influenced by some supernatural force. Job simply looked on at Maisie, contemplating her words before he shook them away. He couldn't focus on the girl's ravings; their honor was at stake, Willie had just murdered a guest, and further delay would only further tarnish the family's image. For Job, getting back on task was one of the few ways that he could free his mind from thinking of demons, which only exacerbated his fear. He slowly dropped his hand, and returned to his normal stance. His eyes shifted over to Willie, and his glare returned. He motioned to the boy's lifeless body, before making his condemnation known to the rest of his Name.

"Why do you spill blood in tha chambers of our Name, Willie?" Job asked, raising his voice for all to hear. "That boy was a guest here; killin' him has brought shame upon us. Everythin' you have done has brought shame upon our Name, and I am ashamed to call you my kin."

"The boy was nae guest of ours, Job." Marcas said, edging his way past a few of the other Elliots to stand a few paces from Willie. Fleetfoot Elliot shared a brief glance with the Wolf, then dodged his gaze away. This, he could practically sense, was a problem. Could the bastards nae even restrain themselves from acting their own direction for long enough to see Four-fingers Tam and his brithers avenged?

"It was Willie who brought him along to an Elliot gathering. Sae it is ainlie his shame to bear, not the Elliot Name." Marcas paused a beat, then folded one hand under his armpit as he fixed a pointed glance at Job. Job, the prodigal son who, unlike Willie and unlike Marcas, had left the Debateable lands ta serve the English Crown. Who'd begged milk-drinkers in the South for succor. Oh sure he had made a braw tale of his heroic resistance ta the idea of serving in their Airmie, but his actions spoke louder than words could ever. Job, who Marcas had grown up hearing spoken of only in the whispers of the disappointed. Until Job had returned with a bribe of some gold and cattle, as if material goods could assuage the shame he put the name through. Now he was the one who had gall to be offended at the holding of the name by another?

"Besides, leastways Willie has nae ever sullied our Name with bent knee to milk-drinkers." Marcas knew almost as soon as he spoke the words they had been the wrong thing to say, but his thoughts had been unable to keep up with his tongue. Damn all to the seven hells, they needed to focus on avenging Tam, and whether such quest was accursed by one of the Faerie Courts, not petty infighting.

[Reverend Norv]

"Enough!" It was Roger Elliot who cried, and his voice rang out like a gunshot - and then the old man staggered slightly, and dropped one hand to the table to support himself. Mither Lileas twitched as she resisted the urge to take Roger's arm and support him. He must be seen to stand alone. She knew that. But it didn't make it easy to watch her brother nearly fall.

In the moment of silence that followed, a thin and raspy voice raised itself to speak. It was Blind Hamish, who was still sitting a few yards to the Elliot's left on the heidsman's bench. Now, he leaned forward toward the unseen crowd, one finger pointed at the empty air.

"Iron Kenneth," he said slowly, "has reason, for a' that ye have spake - but naw for the reasons he believes. Ye ride this night. Sae ye must, or we can only wait for our enemies ta come ta us, and then it is our hames that shall be burnt, our cattle thieved, our women defiled. 'Tis naw just a question o time - tis a question o where the first blow falls, o who has the whip in his hand as the feud begins. We must strike soon, for all our sakes."

"Then why, great-uncle," called Red Duncan impatiently, "does Iron Kenneth have reason o any kind at all?"

"Fair he begs the question that none o ye ha thought ta ask," the wizened old man shouted back. "When ye all ride the border-side this night, who will be left ta defend our hames and families and bairns? Kinmont Willie is on the prowl." A low, discomfited murmur ran through the crowd of Elliots: Blind Hamish heard it, nodded, and continued. "Aye! A man wha pleasures himself wi wee bairns. A man wha roasts men oer a fire - alive, and in their own armor. A man wha cuts unborn babes from out o their mither's wombs ta dash their brains upon a stone - aye, and while the mither yet lives ta see! A man wha fears naw God, naw Cluitie, naw man. A man wha the Armstrongs ha disnamed, and wha now rides the Debatable Lands wi outcasts and murtherers, and preys upon the weak while their menfolk ride the great forays. And ye would take every sword and ride for Buccleuch, while sich a man stalks the night naw five leagues from here!"

For a moment, there was a very uncomfortable silence, and then Red Duncan shook his head. "I fear naw man, but Wat Scott and his twa thousand spears will lay us all in our graves an we do na strike first, and strike hard. Aye, the Kinmont might strike while we are away, but tis not as certain as the doom that awaits us all if we fail ta strike at all."

"The women will all stay in Harelaw this night, behind strong walls and iron-banded doors." Roger Elliot shook his head. "Tis all the mair tha we can do."

"And what o Cracked Maisie?" Mither Lileas asked urgently. She spoke only to her brother, but the whole hall could hear her voice. "Ye heard her well enow."

"Aye," Roger grunted, "but - "

"She is touched," Lileas said, more quietly; her pale eyes were fixed with a bright urgency on Roger's face. "Brither, I ha seen it. We should heed her. Death rides wi ye on this foray."

"Are we women," Red Duncan bellowed from across the room, "that the unseen threat o a disnamed brigand and the rantings o a" - Duncan looked at Robert and bit his tongue - "a troubled dame should keep us at hame and leave us every man's prey? Do we tremble for this, and still call ourselves Elliots?"

"Hauld your tongue, Duncan," Mither Lileas called back. "Ye speak on matters beyond your ken."

Roger looked from Duncan to Lileas and back, and then out at the crowd of reivers, and his shoulders slumped a little, as if he had lost some inner battle. Mither Lileas shook her head in disappointment, and her mouth pursed bitterly, and she turned away. And then Roger Elliot straightened. "I will ride this night!" he cried. "I will ride this night ta Buccleuch! I bind naw man ta ride wi me, but all wha love this Name, and their kin, I trust will raid at my side!"

"I am wi ye, nuncle!" boomed Red Duncan. Hoary Rory echoed the words, and so too did the other Elliots, one at a time: Robin and Wallace, Pale Duncan and Dark Hamish, White Kester and Finlay and Johnnie the Hook. One by one, they stepped forward and gave their word, pledging themselves to each other. Roger Elliot watched, as he had watched so many times before, and his face was hard as stone, but his heart swelled with pride.

When it was over and the swearing was done, the Elliot of Harelaw raised a hand. "And one thing more." His pale blue eyes fell on Willie the Wolf. "This is my tower - boy. Any man wha ye bring under my roof becomes my guest - boy. Ye sit at my table, ye eat my bread, ye drink my ale, and ye murder my guests in my own hall - boy. I care naw for the milk-drinker, but it is me that ye have dishonored - boy."

Roger Elliot drew his sword; the rasp of steel on steel echoed through the suddenly silent chamber. Red Duncan paused a moment, and then drew his own blade as well - a basket-hilted broadsword too heavy for most men even to hold steady, on whose blade a dozen foes had met their end. In a voice like iron, the Elliot of Harelaw continued: "Sae now three courses are open ta ye - boy. Ye can defy me, and walk oot that door, and ne'er call yourself an Elliot again. Ye can defy me, and draw your steel, and die where ye stand wi some honor left."

"Or ye can yield ta me, and walk oot that door, and dig a grave in the stony earth wi your own twa hands and naw help from any man, in plain sight of all. And in that grave ye will lay that laddie, washed and dressed by your own twa hands, and ye will pile the earth atop him afore God and every man." Roger Elliot raised his grey eyebrows. "Do that, and ye can keep your name and your life, and the dishonor done me this day will be forgot." Red Duncan lazily spun his broadsword in the air, its heavy blade humming as it swept in blurred grey arcs at the warrior's side. "The choice," Roger concluded simply, "is for ye ta make."

[Cylarn]

The comment hit Job deep. His service to the English Crown was his price to pay in order to avoid being hanged for an unjust reason, and he simply wanted to forget that he had been forced to bow down in front of the English Crown. It had been 7 or so years since Job returned home, and he was greeted with open arms by those of his Name. Some disliked Job for having ever fought for the Crown, but few would openly call him out on it, years later. Job took offense to the insult, and began to charge forward, only two be restrained by some attendants who foresaw a fight about to happen. Although Job's body language showed that he wasn't fighting with the attendants, a fire burned in his eyes, which were directed at Marcas.

"You disrespectful piece of shit!" he called the young man. "Don't go blabbin' 'bout matter you know nothin' about. If you weren't of my Name, I would have challenged your steel against my steel. You have a l-."

It was Roger's booming call to attention that stopped Job mid-sentence. Released by the attendants, the Elliot soon listened to his most influential critic speak: Blind Hamish. The old warrior disliked Job for his service to the Crown as well as his mercenary lifestyle on the Continent, though Job remained largely civil around the old warrior. It seemed that the elder Elliot supported the attack on the Scott of Buccleuch. The old man further impressed Job with greater insight into the situation. Job was smarter than many other Elliots, but even he seemed to discount the threat posed by Kinmont Willie, a disnamed Armstrong and the most vicious brigand on the Border. At his brother's comment, Job gave a nod of approval.

The following conversation worried Job somewhat; despite his desire to ride against Walter Scott as soon as possible, he was concerned about what Maisie said. Still though, he politely and silently waited for the outcome of the argument between Roger and Mither Lileas. Roger would soon find victory, turning to his kin and asking for them to ride with him. When the cries of approval rang out, Job threw his fist up into the air, sounding off with his pledge.

"You have my sword, uncle!" he cried out.

What came next would satisfy Job, as he dropped his fist and turned to face Willie. Job put his hands behind his back, silently waiting for Willie's response.

[The Grey Wolf]

Despite his hatred of the clan of Armstrong, Willie found himself chuckling at the account of the deeds of the man who shared a name with him. "What a lad," he said in undisguised admiration, receiving several ideas of what to do on his next raid. It seemed to him that the Armstrongs had come under some evil spell that induced stupidity when they banished such a fearsome warrior. Willie respected cruelty, he craved bloodshed, he was tempted to try and meet this fellow named Kinmont Willie Armstrong and offer him an ale.

Robert had glared at the speaker when he called Maisie a troubled dame, and was tempted to hurl a mug of ale in his direction, had he not been a family member. Before he had left for the continent, and just been a wee boy, he had looked up to Red Duncan, due to his ferocious reputation. One could say he tried his best to emulate Duncan. Both of them had shared a fire in their bellies. The difference was that Red Duncan's never seemed to dim, while Robert had grown tired of fighting. Even though he was older than him, Robert felt that Red Duncan was still a kid in some ways. A brash, stupid kid that needed to grow up and never seemed to have done so.

He raised his cup and shouted the same words as the others. Robert was with them. For good of for ill, in the end, he was with them. Willie did the same, raising his axe in approval of the raid.

Then Roger turned his attention to Willie, and Robert watched the scene. "I can assure ye... Uncle Roger," Willie said, Robert couldn't tell whether he was being formal, or mocking. Knowing Willie, there was always the possibility of both. "I had no intention of bringing him in here. He was instructed to wait outside with the horses. He disobeyed me and mocked me, and I handled him. How can ye fault me for punishing a trespassor." that was a half-lie. While Willie had ordered the boy to wait outside, he had meant to bring the boy in after the meeting. He was suspicious that the youth had been sent to him as a spy, the warden's own little birdie in his ear, but there was no proof.

"The boy seemed loyal enough, the least ye can do is afford him a burial, Willie." Robert protested, his eyes darting over to the corpse. He looked with disapproval at the scene, not only at Willie, but at Roger and Duncan as well. Everyone was always looking for an excuse to draw on someone. Europe had her flaws, but even she wasn't this bloody.

Willie glanced at Roger, fairly certain that if he wanted to, the older man would have him arm smashed, and Willie's axe in his skull. Red Duncan had drew his sword as well though, which complicated things somewhat. He was outnumbered, and Willie wasn't naive enough to think anyone would come to his aid, he knew how much they despised him. He tried to pretend it didn't disturb him, or infuriate him.

It seemed like an eternity before the Wolf responded. "Ye all sweeten up to Cousin Willie when ye want something. When ye need something to become 'lost,' when ye need to sell something that might prove compromising if caught on yer person." his accent had changed from his faux English one back to his Border one. "Wha comes to yer aid whenever ye need something? Willie. Wha wad be the first to ride to yer aid if some thieves might try and make off with yer cattle? Willie. Yet you all sit here with yer heads held high as if Willie be the scum of the earth who ye never cavort wi. Maybe so, unless you need something." he looked down on the corpse of the boy and anyone who paid attention closely might have seen the flicker of regret in his eyes. Hurling the boy over his shoulder as if he was as light as an empty bag, he turned to the door and left.

[Of the Quendi]

He arrived ungreeted to bastle house and had expected little else. He was no prodigal son to be treated with feast and festivities but merely a misliked ill-suffered cousin. Yet judging by the amount of horses in the stable and the noise coming out from bastle house some form of celebration or convocation was underway. Thomas sighed. His name could be tempestuous even in few numbers and sober. For a moment the young man pondered if he had not made an error of judgement by coming to bastle house first. But it was too late to turn back now. So he entered.

He was overwhelmed from the moment he entered the large first floor of bastle house by the noise, the commotion, the sour smell of people and animals that accompanied a grand meeting of the Elliots. A recluse who favored silent prayer and contemplation to socializing with his Name Thomas found the contrast between the wild, untamed scenery of the moors and the constricting atmosphere of a filled bastle house unpleasant and even slightly nauseating.

"Pax Vobiscum." Thomas glumly greeted his Name in a deep solemn voice. Pulling back the hood of his black cloak to reveal a gaunt humorless face, pale from too many hours reading and writing in the light of vax candles, with two intense, almost febberishly, lucid eyes peering inquisitorially out from deep dark sockets. His appearance was so dour and his entry so somber that the more superstitious of the Elliots could have easily been forgiven for assuming that Death itself was guesting bastle house tonight, to claim the soul of poor Willie-o-the-Wisps.

For saying nothing further Thomas's gaze was drawn to the motionless form of a boy he knew not. For a brief moment a sigh formed on Thomas's lips, despair at the alcoholism of his name. Then he realized the truth. The atmosphere in the room, which he found so overwhelming, was tense, especially between Fiona, who Thomas noticed in passing to have grown quite a bit, and Willie Elliot, and Fiona's brother Duff whose hand rested on his sword.

Realizing that the unknown boy was not passed out from drinking but dead Thomas half gasped in sorrow. Lowering his head and closing his eyes Thomas ignored his Name, folded his hands and began to pray according to the old ways of the Catholic church. Quiet, but not secretive, he recited the appropriate latin prayer, despairing at the death of one so young as the boy. Likely heretic and certainly slain without having received the last oil God only knew what Hell the boy would have to endure now rather than live a good and long life on earth.

Finishing his prayer Thomas looked up once more at his Name. "What evil has befallen ye in mine absence Name Elliot, that a boy na yet man lie dead in our bastle house at tis feast?" Thomas asked, looking from Roger Elliot to the false priest Joseph, begging with his stern gaze for an explanation and, though unintended, sounding both accusatory and superior. "What demons have beset us and lead to such tragedy?" He asked gazing at the people standing near the corpse, Duff and Fiona, Iron Kenneth, Job and Fleetfoot Marcas. Then his gaze fell upon Willie and whatever tenderness had momentarily softened the severity of his inquisitorial gaze vanished. "Who shall for this heinous crime, burn." He commanded, stressing the last word as he gazed at his vicious clubfooted cousin.

[Nationstatelandsville]

Finishing his prayer Thomas looked up once more at his Name. "What evil has befallen ye in mine absence Name Elliot, that a boy na yet man lie dead in our bastle house at tis feast?" Thomas asked, looking from Roger Elliot to the false priest Joseph, begging with his stern gaze for an explanation and, though unintended, sounding both accusatory and superior. "What demons have beset us and lead to such tragedy?" He asked gazing at the people standing near the corpse, Duff and Fiona, Iron Kenneth, Job and Fleetfoot Marcas. Then his gaze fell upon Willie and whatever tenderness had momentarily softened the severity of his inquisitorial gaze vanished. "Who shall for this heinous crime, burn." He commanded, stressing the last word as he gazed at his vicious clubfooted cousin.

Iron Kenneth was a godly man; in his youth, there was no iron in his blood, no fires of the forge at his hands, but a prayer and a Bible. He had wished to be a priest so badly that, once, he had slunk off in the middle of the night, hoping to steal away to a milkdrinker church - but he had turned back. The priests did not take reivers, and there no point in hiding it. These dreams were long abandoned, but Kenneth still held a great respect for the priesthood.

Except Thomas. Thomas was a twit.

"Fuckin' hell," Kenneth sighed to himself, tipping his mug back to find it drained. Damn.

[Occupied Deutschland]

Marcas' eyes were drawn to Thomas almost as soon as he opened the door. While Job had been held as the family's embarrassment for his generation, prior to his return at least, Thomas was Marcas' generation embarrassment. Joseph Elliot was insufferable, a holier-than-thou reverend who always seemed to be quoting scripture. Marcas despised the man and his ways. Always lording about as if his knowledge of the Bible actually mattered one lick here. A verse was not a useful thing in the Debateable lands. What use was a verse in protecting, or stealing for that matter, cattle?

But as frustrating as Joseph was, at least he wasn't Catholic.

"I think a lot o' us are going ta be doing some burning then, cousin." Marcas said to fill the silence that had emerged upon Thomas arrival.

"He's nae the first boy ta be killed out here. Nae the first killed at the hand of an Elliot, nae the last to be so. When we ride again' the Scott's, chances are more than one boy will see his share of deadly consequence for the feud." He continued harshly, eyes flashing in what could be anger or, more disturbingly, could be delighted expectation. "This is no church, Thomas. People die out here."

Marcas smiled a wholly fake smile, "I suppose we can rejoice, though. We have a servant of the Pope here to save us from our heretical ways. Oh, what has brought on this unexpected visit, dear cousin?"

[Nude East Ireland]

Too busy observing the chaos around him, Duff was almost surprised when his sister grabbed his hand. He looked to Fiona, hearing her pleas as the rest of the world seemed to fade away. He felt Fiona's grip tighten and in turn tightened his grip on her hand. He gave her a comforting smile and nodded to her. "I give ya my word, my dear sister," he whispers quietly to her as reassuringly as he can. He gently pulls her closer to him and squeezes her hand slightly harder as he looks into her eyes.

"We will have ta speak more when we are away from all others," he continues, whispering quietly so no one else can hear. "I will not let a thing happen ta me. Do not worry ya'rself."

[Of the Quendi]

Thomas shivered at the words of Marcas. Even to the Borders had the hatred and fanaticism of the religious upheavals spread, infesting the purest of hearts, turning brother against brother. How could the others not see that their "protestantism" was a sickness of the soul, making beast of man. If there was one thing Thomas had always begrudged the Church it was its persecution and processes against heretics. To burn a heretic was a horrid thing for his soul would be lost forever. Surely if Heaven would rejoice more over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons, as Luke wrote, then the holy mission of the church was to secure that the sinners repented, not burn them.

After all had not Christ himself provided an example on how to treat sinners and heretics. He had embraced the former and was not Judas the first of heretics, and Thomas's namesake the first of blasphemers, when he turned against the Savior? And had not Christ seen all in the troubled heart of Judas and forgiven all. The son of God, vested with the power of his divinity, had not punished his treacherous apostle, nor should the church the wayward sheep of its flock.

Smiling sadly at Marcas Thomas replied; "Daily, sweet cousin, I pray ta Mary, the Mother of God, and all the saints, in accordance with the ancient traditions followed by your father, and his father before him and his father before him for a thousand years, and until quite recently you yourself with them, that you shan't ever, in this life or the next, burn." Was his retort. Gently delivered in a soft-spoken tone, yet highhanded in all its presumptuous sympathy. "Therefore, I do besiege you do not be so eager to wish for your kin to burn and leave it to the almighty to judge the souls and sins of men."

Thomas paused looking down at the dead boy whose name he didn't even know. "Know this. Whether one serves the Pope or prefers to prostrate oneself before the Queen of Scotland unmanned there are no sect or cult of Christ that condones murder. When our souls are to be judged before our heavenly father saying that killing was our way and had always been so will not offer any of us salvation."

Looking away from Marcas Thomas approached the corpse of the boy kneeling down beside it. Ignoring his Name he said another prayer, closing the eyes of the boy with a gentle hand. Then, realizing that he had not answered the question posed by his cousin Thomas looked up at Marcas once more. In a more plain tone he replied; "Mine mither passed away, I came for her funeral, and I came ..." Thomas paused, pondering if what he was about to say could be true and not just a pleasant fiction. "Because this is my home."

[Reverend Norv]

As Willie threw the body of the dead boy over his shoulder and left the hall, Roger Elliot grunted softly and closed his eyes in weariness. "Aye," he called, "maybe so, Wolf. But niver forget, lad - the need we have o ye is dust and ashes next to the need ye have o us! A man lives and dies by his kin. Ye should recall that afore ye shed innocent blood 'neath an Elliot roof e'er again!"

Then Saintly Thomas strode into the hall, and began muttering to himself in Latin, and announced that whoever had killed the boy whom Willy was carrying out was bound to burn in hell. Roger Elliot just shook his head and lowered himself painfully back into his chair; Mither Lileas gave the dour young man a sad, sympathetic smile; Blind Hamish twisted uncomfortably in his seat, for everyone knew that he still prayed to Saint Michael and Saint Christopher each night. But Red Duncan spat disgustedly into the rushes on the floor, and leaned toward Job. "The priest - aye, and is he even that, sure? - he canna sae much as ride a foray like a man, and yet he comes back ta us and prates o hellfire. If he were na my kin, I would send him down ta England tied backwards upon an ass."

Before anyone could respond to Thomas, Fleetfoot Marcas spoke the words that were in everyone's mind. The Border was a bloody place. No man lived long with his hands clean of innocent blood.

And Thomas' reply, in turn, did him no favors. "Aye," snarled Hoary Rory, "but killing is our way, and it has always been so! And if I ride because tis the only way ta protect me kin and feed me bairns, and ye and the Church call that sin, then ye can tak your filthy pride and ride back where ye came from!"

There was a roar of approval, and Joseph - seeming to sense an opportunity - turned away from Duff and Fiona and cried out as well, his hands raised as if he were preaching from his pulpit. "Aye, and did na God give o'er the Amorites into the hand o his elect? Aye, and did na Joshua o'erthrow the walls o Jericho? And did na the Laird gie to the elect the cattle o the Amalekites for a spoil o war?" The minister's strong voice rang through the chamber. "The Scotts kneel ta Romish idolatry and worship Popish baubles. Hell awaits naw man wha rides agin' em."

There was another, even louder roar of approval. Red Duncan's hard face split into a predatory grin. Mither Lileas gave Roger a worried look; Elliot did not kill Elliot, but Thomas' sanctimony and soft hands had touched some violent nerve of wounded pride in his kin. That was terribly dangerous: if Elliot blood flowed in Harelaw, then the most sacred bond of every Name would be irreparably broken.

"Enough!" Roger Elliot's voice sounded exhausted, but it still held a note of absolute authority. "Enough. Thomas, whilst ye are beneath my roof, ye shall respect us and our ways. Ye have a choice ahead o ye, lad. Naw man can be only half an Elliot. We do na ask that ye worship alongside Joseph " - a pointed glance at the minister accompanied this comment - "but ye canna tell your kin that they are bound for Hell. If it is na in your heart to do that much honor ta your own flesh and blood, then this is your hame naw longer."

"But" - and Roger held up a warning finger - "sae long as ye can honor your kin and our ways, then this is still your hame, and ye are welcome at my table." Roger cast a glare around the hall; Hoary Rory gave a disgusted grunt, and sat down. "We all grieve for your mither, lad," the Elliot continued more quietly. "Tis a fine thing for ye ta come hame ta bury her."

* * *

In the next few hours, it became rapidly apparent who had planned the foray. Roger Elliot introduced the main ideas, but it was Red Duncan who dealt with the details, and who answered the many questions. For those with eyes to see, too, the plan had Duncan's fingerprints all over it. It was bold, almost reckless, but also meticulously planned and highly disciplined. Bloodthirsty the younger Elliot might be, aye, and even foolish - but no man could call him lazy or untrained.

The Scott tower - really more of a full-fledged castle - at Buccleuch was far too strong to attack. Breaching its gate would take hours, a battering ram, and barrels of lamp oil - if it could even be done at all. By the time that the Elliots had gotten inside, Walter Scott would have rallied a thousand spears and would come down on the attackers with a vastly superior force. "Ta seek ta storm Buccleuch," Red Duncan admitted grimly, "is ta gie ourselves o'er ta Old Wat as a gift."

The plan, instead, relied on speed. Most of the Scotts did not live at Buccleuch, just as most of the Elliots did not live at Harelaw. They lived instead in bastle houses and homesteads scattered around the Scotts' lands. And the vast majority of the Scotts' cattle grazed near these bastle houses, not within sight of Buccleuch. Beginning at dusk, the Elliots would sweep through the Scotts' land, from homestead to homestead, driving away these cattle before them in ever-increasing numbers. "If we can force a door and burn a house, kill a man or take a hostage, sae much the better," Duncan explained. "The Laird knows I like a woman screaming in her ain bed. But, an we linger too long in any ane place, Wat Scott will find us and crush us. If ye can burn wi speed, then burn. If ye canna, then do na waste your time. We ride for the cattle; their loss will hurt Old Wat the most, in the end."

Before dawn, all of the Elliots - and the hopefully vast numbers of cattle that they would have driven off - would be back at Harelaw, where the woman would have spend the night behind the safety of the tower's walls. In their wake, the raiders would leave a few dead Scotts - almost certainly more than enough to avenge Four-fingers Tam and his brothers - but, more importantly, they would leave the Scotts bereft of many of the cattle upon which they relied for survival. "And every man on the Border will see," Red Duncan concluded with a savage smile, "that naw man slays an Elliot wi'out risking the loss o all that he has."

At this point, Blind Hamish shook his head. "Tis bold, lad, and it may well succeed, if ye can ride swiftly enow all the night through. But Wat Scott will not delay; by sundown o the next day he will come wi a Hot Trod for ta claim his cattle - and then he will still have his thousand spears ta our twa hundred."

"Aye," Red Duncan grinned ferociously, "and we will be waiting. Ye see, nuncle? In the end, we will have naw choice save ta fight Old Wat, and when we do, we will be outnumbered. But this way, we force him ta come onto our land, at a time o our choosing, and so we can even the odds by controlling the setting o the fight. We strike wi surprise, on ground o our choosing, where he canna bring all his riders into the fray at once - and where we can win, naw matter how many spears Old Wat has at his back."

There was a long moment of silence; then Hoary Rory grunted softly, almost as if he were surprised, and he nodded. "Tis a good plan," the aging warrior muttered. There was a murmur of agreement.

Red Duncan nodded confidently, and stood, his eyes dancing with anticipation. "Then ye wha fight wi me, say your farewells and sharpen your steel. When the moon rises o'er the hills - we ride."

[Cylarn]

During the planning of the operation, Job patiently observed as his brother planned the operation, occasionally offering some advise for his brother's operation. Although Job had led and planned many operations, Red Duncan was an equal - if not better - tactician. Reiver raids utilized speed and intensity, and Job smiled at the effectiveness of the operation. He wagered that an Elliot could best a Scott any day of the week, and he wasn't just bragging. Next to the Armstrongs, the Elliots had a reputation as dangerous fighters, in and out of the saddle.

"Scott won't know what hit 'em, brother," Job said. "Let us ride soon, and give our fallen what they deserve."

[Nationstatelandsville]

Iron Kenneth rested the hammer of his grandfather against his shoulder and shook his head. "Backbreaker", the weapon was called; it was dubbed such by its original owner, which had thoroughly convinced Kenneth its original owner was a dumb son-of-a-bitch. Only arrogant milkdrinkers named their weapons. It was a hammer, not a baby, and its only purpose was to kill. When it no longer could fulfill that purpose, it would be discarded. Perhaps the Elliots had seen fit to name the hammer as a child because they applied the same philosophy towards men; tools of war, and nothing more. Certainly, Kenneth could believe it.

Backbreaker was nothing to a hammer of the forge. The forge had given Kenneth all he had - food, family, respect - and Backbreaker had only given him scars and tired bones. The Business of the Elliots was a black thing, and only black men found any thrill in it. And yet, like many black things, it was essential to the mere survival of his family. Perhaps, then, that is why they named weapons; to pay the proper respect to their own livelihoods.

Or maybe the Elliots were just bloodthirsty cunts. Maybe both.

"Aye," he said, "it might work. Let us na get fire in our blood just yet, but it might work. Do the Scotts know we're comin'? Surely they expect some revenge. If they do, they'll have posted some kind o' guards in their lands - we must be mindful of them. We can kill 'em with ease, but they'll slow us down."

[Cylarn]

Iron Kenneth rested the hammer of his grandfather against his shoulder and shook his head. "Backbreaker", the weapon was called; it was dubbed such by its original owner, which had thoroughly convinced Kenneth its original owner was a dumb son-of-a-bitch. Only arrogant milkdrinkers named their weapons. It was a hammer, not a baby, and its only purpose was to kill. When it no longer could fulfill that purpose, it would be discarded. Perhaps the Elliots had seen fit to name the hammer as a child because they applied the same philosophy towards men; tools of war, and nothing more. Certainly, Kenneth could believe it.

Backbreaker was nothing to a hammer of the forge. The forge had given Kenneth all he had - food, family, respect - and Backbreaker had only given him scars and tired bones. The Business of the Elliots was a black thing, and only black men found any thrill in it. And yet, like many black things, it was essential to the mere survival of his family. Perhaps, then, that is why they named weapons; to pay the proper respect to their own livelihoods.

Or maybe the Elliots were just bloodthirsty cunts. Maybe both.

"Aye," he said, "it might work. Let us na get fire in our blood just yet, but it might work. Do the Scotts know we're comin'? Surely they expect some revenge. If they do, they'll have posted some kind o' guards in their lands - we must be mindful of them. We can kill 'em with ease, but they'll slow us down."

"We laid our kin to rest two years prior," he said. "More likely than not, they are lazy and not expectin' us to do much. The Scotts were not present at our meetin' either, so even if they do anticipate a raid, they do not know when we'll strike."

[Nationstatelandsville]

Iron Kenneth rested the hammer of his grandfather against his shoulder and shook his head. "Backbreaker", the weapon was called; it was dubbed such by its original owner, which had thoroughly convinced Kenneth its original owner was a dumb son-of-a-bitch. Only arrogant milkdrinkers named their weapons. It was a hammer, not a baby, and its only purpose was to kill. When it no longer could fulfill that purpose, it would be discarded. Perhaps the Elliots had seen fit to name the hammer as a child because they applied the same philosophy towards men; tools of war, and nothing more. Certainly, Kenneth could believe it.

Backbreaker was nothing to a hammer of the forge. The forge had given Kenneth all he had - food, family, respect - and Backbreaker had only given him scars and tired bones. The Business of the Elliots was a black thing, and only black men found any thrill in it. And yet, like many black things, it was essential to the mere survival of his family. Perhaps, then, that is why they named weapons; to pay the proper respect to their own livelihoods.

Or maybe the Elliots were just bloodthirsty cunts. Maybe both.

"Aye," he said, "it might work. Let us na get fire in our blood just yet, but it might work. Do the Scotts know we're comin'? Surely they expect some revenge. If they do, they'll have posted some kind o' guards in their lands - we must be mindful of them. We can kill 'em with ease, but they'll slow us down."

"We laid our kin to rest two years prior," he said. "More likely than not, they are lazy and not expectin' us to do much. The Scotts were not present at our meetin' either, so even if they do anticipate a raid, they do not know when we'll strike."

"Aye," Kenneth nodded, "but the Scotts have eyes, as any man does - and all the Elliots in the Borderlands departed for Harelaw at once. Do ya really think they didn't notice?"

Kenneth sighed, "If we're gonna' ride, we might as well ride tonight, before they've had time ta properly amass their forces. Perhaps we should have an advance guard ride before the rest, ta look out for any Scott armies? I could lead it, if ya need, but my eyes aren't nearly as good as they used ta be."

[Occupied Deutschland]

Marcus liked the plan.

He wasn't entirely certain of aspects of it, of course. He worried the Scotts would have time to gather together before him and those of his name could retreat back into Elliot land. He worried that the Scotts would guess their intentions and sit in ambush of their own. Most of all he worried about the numbers. He was none too excited to face an enemy that outnumbered him and his kin.

Thankfully, the plan tried to avoid any such confrontation occurring, and Marcas chose to trust in it. If all went awry, he could always steal away from the Scotts. Hopefully. If not...Marcas didn't think about what would happen if he could not. He could. He was 'Fleetfoot' Marcas. Snide though some other of the Elliots may speak the nickname, it was true. If danger caught up to the rest of the Elliots he could outrun it. It wasn't particularly noble, of course. But the Elliots weren't nobility. As Willie exemplified. Why not wholly embrace who they were?

Of course, there was one glaring problem in the plan. A problem that shone and sparkled above the others like a particularly inviting bit of gold or silver.

Riding. Riding meant horses. Riding horses.

Frowning, Marcas skulked outside the hall as some of the other Elliots continued to talk about the plan. They could try and put their minds at ease by puzzling out possibilities. Marcas was going to put his mind at ease by examining the horses.

Many of the horses tied outside were different than those Marcas had seen at the last gathering. The Way of Things here on the Border meant that in the endless ebb and flow of cattle raids, one had their horses stolen as often as not. So he recognized few. There were exceptions, of course. Robert's pony, and his wife's mare over there next to one another. Willie's mottled black horse staring at the other horses beside it the way a man stares at a dog. Kenneth's, seeming as old and tired as the man himself...

Marcas' mother had always told him one could tell a lot about a person by watching their horse. He idly wondered what his own lack of a mount of his own would tell her about him. All he could think of it was the truth. He didn't trust horses. How could anyone?

Refusing to let the horses he recognized get away free, Marcas began pacing in front of the horses. Staring at first their eyes, then the mane, then their mouth. Finally, his gaze would drift down to their hooves and he would often squint, leaning to the side to examine them from another angle. Checking. One had to be sure.

Especially if he was going to have to ride one of the blasted things.

[Reverend Norv]

Red Duncan nodded. "Aye, we ride tonight, afore Old Wat realizes what is afoot. But we ride together. Naw advance guard."

"This is the Scotts' land. They will see us coming. Our purpose holds ta move sae swiftly that we outride the very news o our coming; by the time word has reached Old Wat that we are at any particular place, we will already ha been long gane. For that ta work, we must be able ta roll o'er any resistance; if we send out a smaller advance guard, then it will be spotted, and it will be attacked and trapped in battle wi whatever Scotts appear. And sae we shall be held in ane place, and we will be easy targets for the Scott's thousand spears." Duncan spat. "Nay, we will be spotted whate'er we do. The key is ta be able ta respond wi speed and violence o action when that happens. Ta do that, we must all be together. An advance guard is more risky, not less."

The big reiver stood. "Now - I have matters that need seen to, afore we depart. Say your farewells, and sharpen your brands. I shall see ye all at sundown."

[Reverend Norv]

Dusk has fallen over the Debatable Lands; the sun sinks below the horizon, and the sky darkens to a twilight the color of old iron. Stars twinkle out in the dark between the faint wisps of cloud scudding overhead; the mist rolls in over the moors and the heather and the rocks, thick as woolen fleece just sheared off the ram.

In the packed earth of the courtyard just outside Harelaw, the Elliots make their final preparations and say their farewells. All know that this may be the last time that they speak to their loved ones; no one mentions it. A woman does not send her man off to the foray with the thought of his own death ringing in his ears; a man does not admit, even to himself, that a bolt or a blade might yet find him.

Wee Mungo will not ride tonight: age, and the loss of a foot to a Dacre sword, will keep the old warrior at Harelaw with the women. Now, he sits with his back to the tower and the stump of his left leg propped up on a stool. Wee Mungo is a-singing, and his voice - cracked with age but still as clear as a reed pipe - echoes from the stones of Harelaw:

Lammas-tide, and I must away, love
But don't ye weep, lass, for I'll be back!
When I return ye can then rest easy
But for now, there's naw turning back.

Finlay gathers Willful Moira into his arms, and embraces her tightly, and whispers in her ear that she should look after the women and children. He laughs, and there is faith and pride in his eyes. And then Finlay hands Tall Rory his latch, and he looks his son right in the eye, and he says - all slow and clear, like - "I'll see ye back here wi the dawn, lad." It is a promise no man can make, but Finlay Elliot makes it all the same.

For I'll go raiding i' the night, love,
I'll ride loyally wi my kin.
The moon is up, and I'm awa, love,
For there is vengeance and there is gain.

White Kester Elliot shrugs his battered old jack o'plaite on, and he gives his nephew Duff a smile and a reassuring nod. Pale Duncan tightens the girth-strap on his horse's saddle, and shortens the stirrups so that he can stand tall as he rides and put his full weight behind the tip of his lance. Hoary Rory gazes at his son, Walker Thom, as he runs a rough whetstone over the edge of his massive war-axe; the grinding rasp of stone on steel hisses in the cool evening air. It is the sound of death, and some men clench their fists to keep from shuddering when they hear it, and other men smile like wolves.

I know it's hard when I have to leave, love,
These deeds of ours have a bloody end.
But for honor, and my family,
I'd stay wi ye, and the cattle tend.

Mither Lileas tightens the straps on Roger Elliot's gleaming steel cuirass and smiles bravely at him. Roger nods wearily, and touches his forehead to hers for a moment. Lileas wants to tell him that he does not have to go, that he does not have to drag himself back into the saddle and ride out into the dark to face a young man's death. But it would be a lie for her to say so, and Lileas knows this, and so she keeps silent, and her brother clasps her hands for a moment and then turns to buckle on his sword.

Though the night be as dark as a dungeon
And the clouds they hide the moon,
I will go on this long night's journey,
For the deed it must be done.

A cluster of men, already armed and armored, are discussing the finer points of the evening's foray with Red Duncan, who listens with half an ear and answers a few lingering questions about the plan. But Duncan's fence-post-sized backsword is already spinning in his hand, and the big man's eyes are far away, seeing into the bloody night to come. For a moment, his gaze meets that of his brother, Job, and his face splits into a blood-chilling smile. There is no more boasting now, no words at all - only the animal anticipation of agony and death.

Chill the night winds, dark and dismal
As we gather for the ride.
Kiss the children for me, Betty,
The deed's afoot on the Border side!

And now Roger Elliot swings heavily up into his saddle, and he ties the strap of his burgonet beneath his chin, and he nods to Mither Lileas. The last farewells have all been said; a strange silence falls over the courtyard of Harelaw as the women and the children and the old men and the sick and the infirm slowly turn their backs on the riders and file back into the tower. "Go with God!" cries Joseph's voice, clear and strong and yet somehow painfully out of place on this mist-shrouded evening. "Go with God!"

The great gates of Harelaw close, and inside it is all close-packed bodies and brave smiles and gnawing, stomach-churning fear. Faintly, from somewhere within that crowded tower, Wee Mungo's voice drifts out over the moors.

Aye, I'll go raiding i the night, love,
I'll ride loyally wi my kin!
The moon is up, and I'm awa, love,
For there is vengeance and there is gain!

In the courtyard outside, two hundred-odd men on horseback wait in a silence broken only by the snorting of ponies and the creaking of saddle leather. Finally, Red Duncan twists in his saddle and gazes over the reivers. His voice is taut with excitement. "Be your horses' hooves all muffled?"

There is a low chorus of "Aye." Every pony's hooves have been wrapped in old rags so than an iron horseshoe will not clang or raise sparks on stone. Red Duncan grunts approvingly and looks at his uncle Roger, waiting, the young man's eyes afire in the misty starlight.

Roger Elliot straightens in the saddle, and exhales; his breath smokes in the cold night air. And then the old man nods, and says simply, "For our kin."

At an easy trot, fanning out so that each man is perhaps a dozen yards from his neighbor, two hundred riders set out to the east across the moors. Hundreds of men and women and children watch from the windows of Harelaw as their fathers and husbands and sons ride away into the dark. All too soon, the distant shapes are swallowed by the night mist.

Mither Lileas turns away from one of Harelaw Tower's arrow-slits, and she takes Fiona's hand in her left hand and Willful Maisie's hand in her right. "Well," Lileas says with a little smile. "How about a song, then?"

[Cylarn]

-snip-

When the time to rally came, Job rode up to the meeting place, wearing his iron cuirass, greaves, and his helmet. In his right hand was a long wooden spear with a sharpened iron spearhead, which was useful for herding cattle as much as it was useful for killing men. Unlike many of his kin, he didn't really have anyone particularly special to say his goodbyes to. He had once had a woman that he had grown close to, though they had severed contact when Job left Spain. The reiver had even considered wedding her, but for whatever reason, he couldn't bring himself to do it. His reasoning? Unknown. She was on his mind for a brief moment, until Job and Red Duncan locked eyes and traded eager smiles, with both men ready to draw blood.

The silence seemed to go on forever in Job's mind, though it was soon broken by the voice of Joseph. Job rolled his eyes at the man, and rode over next to his brother. What came next would be the last words to be muttered before they began to ride. His horse's hooves were muffled with cloth in order to ensure stealth, and his horse made few sounds as they waited for the order to move out. When that order came, Job moved the horse to an equal speed with his brother, fanning out away from the warrior as they maintained a distance between one another. Job was ready for blood, and if Old Wat himself was waiting for him, Job's blade would be the one to end the wretched man's life.

[Occupied Deutschland]

Marcas alternated staring into the darkness ahead of him at the outlines of the other Elliots that rode ahead of him and scowling down at 'his' horse. She was a compliant and good-natured grey mare loaned to him by Red Duncan, with not a single obstinate bone in her body. Even under Marcas' inexpert guide she responded quickly and freely to his commands, never showing the slightest inclination towards ill-temper.

Marcas didn't like her at all. Whether or not she reciprocated the feeling was irrelevant.

Jerking the reins to the side, much more harshly than was necessary, Marcas allowed the beast to carry him crosswise to the rest of the Elliot clan. He certainly wasn't going to ride near the front. He wasn't nearly a good enough rider to justify taking the lead like that. He'd more than likely end up putting the horse's leg into a hole or something. Not that such an event would be objectionable. It was just a horse. Marcas had made sure of that.

But besides his own skill at riding, the front was also the worst place to be in case of an ambush.

Marcas slapped a foot into the mares flank, speeding her progress slightly as he mentally raged at the need for the creature. It was the Scotts fault he had to be riding her this moment. Their fault she had to deal with him as her rider. He would much rather be out on foot somewhere. But Four-fingers Tam deserved this. It had been too long coming.

He just hoped Cracked Maisie's words weren't something speaking to her through the Second Sight. The shriek Maisie had let out in the hall earlier came back to him in full force, and where most men may have shuddered, Marcas let out a long and slow breath. As if merely looking about at the other nearby Elliots, Marcas twisted in the saddle and squinted past the outside of the group, searching for anything that seemed wrong about the land, or the other Elliots or their mounts. The Fair Folk were at their most powerful in the night.

Bringing his mare closer alongside a nearby rider, Marcas offered an honest smile to Willie 'the Wolf' Elliot. The move was partially motivated by discomfort. The night air combined with Maisie's warning was not conducive to make a man feel welcome in the moors at night, even with all the experience Marcas had in them. Things seemed to change in the land at night, he didn't need the Second Sight to recognize that.

"You know, for a pair of murdering brigands they sure like ta' castigate others for the same qualities." He said lightly, as if making idle chat. There could be no mistaking who 'they' referred to. Red Duncan and Roger.

Marcas shook his head. "At the least the Old Man has finally set out to do something against the Scotts. Been too long." Marcas shook his head once again, "Too damn long."

[The Grey Wolf]

Willie briefly acknowledged the smile that Marcas had given him with one of his own, a small smirk that would've barely passed as one. He had been sullen and despondent since the morning, behaving almost like a spoiled kid, but now his demeanor had seemed to improve. Adjacent and behind him were no less than sixteen men, members of his gang of reivers that he took to for company. They were all fit men, some of them being disnamed, meaning they had to reive more than anyone to make their living. In preparation for the raid, Willie had gathered the worst of the worst of his gang. They were the men that he took with him whenever he wanted to make his point across brutally. No woman or child was safe from them, their depravity had no bounds. They obeyed no man.

Yet they obeyed Willie without question, almost like dogs. He fed them and clothed them and allowed them to bunk with him. They went around the debatable lands searching for death, and he was the one man they didn't want to kill them. Willie made sure that their loyalties were never in question.

Hoping to avoid the members of Willie's gang of butchers, Robert rode over to Red Duncan. "It's been a long time since we truly spoke," he said with a grin. Despite his irritation with Red Duncan, he still cared about the man, although he was more than willing to bash his face in if he attempted to insult Maisie one more time. Now wasn't the time to hold grudges over trivial matters though. With Louisa at the tower, his worry had increased, and the mysterious letter he had received, signed by his dead brother, did nothing to allay those fears. They were most likely the cause of them. He was not afraid of the Thomsons, they were a small and insignificant family, but their allies he was afraid of. "I wonder what Geordie would say if he could see me now," he laughed nervously, ignoring the burning in his throat.

[Evraim]

Fiona gazed into her brother's eyes uncertainly, despite the reassuring feel of his hand resting under her own. Then she nodded almost sullenly, despondent in the knowledge that she could not ask him to sit out from the coming carnage. To do so would mark him as a coward and an unreliable ingrate, a devastating blow to any man living on the Border. "Ma prayers and ma love sall gae wi ye, brither, o'er aw the burns o these mirky lands wha we name hame," she whispered tenderly, "I pray that thay sall bide wi ye, as a laverock, come the morn's morn, ta make a song ta fetch ye back to me. We sall speak then, brither, o aw and sundry."

Then, feeling the flutters of her mournful heart, she looked away, her golden hair obscuring the tears that threatened to paint her cheeks as bright a crimson as Duncan's countenance. To let her kin see her acting in this manner would have been humiliating and more. It might dishearten the men who would soon risk their lives to protect every one of them, who yearned to bring justice to the Scott of Buccleuch, who had hanged four Elliots as food for the carrion crows before hiding behind Queen Mary's skirts. Either one would result in a calamity, one personal, one absolute.

The girl listened to the back-and-forth between Thomas and Marcas while wearing an aloof expression. She was an ardent Calvinist, albeit one who made allowances for the customs that had been practiced amid the moors since before the birth of Christ, but she didn't despise Catholics as much as most of her kin did. They were incorrect about a number of things, including scripture, liturgy, and doctrine. Perhaps it would be more proper to say that they had misconstrued practically everything. Despite this, Fiona couldn't hate them, especially not when two of them wore the same name as she herself wore. She permitted Thomas a gentle, furtive smile in acknowledgement of his assertion that this was his home, but made no utterances to dampen the hostility than ran throughout the room.

Thankfully, Roger Elliot's voice cut through those of his hot-blooded kin like a knife through freshly churned butter. Fiona nodded in quiet approval of his decision, but, again, words failed her. She would not have spoken in any case. The time for words had passed, even as she shivered mere inches from her brother's breast, her eyes reflecting the gleam in his own. She felt feverish, like someone had spilled water from a boiling cauldron over her head. Aw that is left for me tae dae is tae tighten the straps o ma brither's cuirass and tae pray that his brand strikes true, Fiona thought resignedly.

---

"Mynd your vow," she had implored him one final time, before he exited the hall among the other Elliot men. She might have embraced him, and pressed her lips to his brow, if such a gesture would not have made him look puerile or womanish in the sight of the others. As it was, she settled for a farewell that was not a farewell. They would meet again. They had to. He had glowed resplendently in the armor that he had acquired from a son of the Dacre of Carlisle. For a moment, Fiona had even fancied her brother the equal of any figure from ancient lore. How could one appear so splendid and yet maintain so frail an existence? It didn't seem fair, and, in fact, it wasn't.

After the hall's great, oaken door was closed and barricaded, Fiona sat upon a chair, clutching a small harp a bit askew in her non-dominant hand. She was in a brooding mood. The stars outside had been obscured by eerie clouds, an ill-omen, though it served for a foray. Without the light of the moon and the constellations, the men, her brother among them, would blend into the moors better, as they traveled like phantom riders over the glens that led to Buccleuch, snatching cattle, burning cottages, and slaying any who attempted to halt their raid. Still, she felt an ominous sense of disquiet. Had she possessed the Sight to the same degree as Mither Lileas, she might have rushed after the party and asked them to turn back. Instead, she sat in contemplation, even as knots formed in her stomach and tears threatened to bore from her eyes.

So enthralled was she by thoughts of gloom and doom that the girl jumped slightly when the matron of the Elliot Clan took her hand. The crone's skin was somewhat leathery from the wrinkles that came with age and hard life, but warmth emanated from her palms, giving them a gentle feel. Without realizing, Fiona smiled broadly. She wanted to ask whether any visions had come to the older woman, but decided that such talk would bring ill-fortune. It was best not to discuss the Other-world when so much was at stake, for the Fair Folk were fickle. In fact, Fiona desperately wanted not to steer her mind from the topic altogether. Even an idle thought might evoke their wrath. "Whit song wad ye hae me play, my dear mither?" the girl asked respectfully. Lileas was far too old to be her birth mother, but the woman served as a mother to anyone who wore the name Elliot, and thus deserved similar respect.

[Nationstatelandsville]

Iron Kenneth sat atop his gelding, glancing about the assembled horde of antsy reivers with his usual stark scowl.

Death was the inevitable and inescapable end of all things - all men knew this, all men wallowed all their pitiful existences with that knowledge. Each and every Elliot man faced each and every night with the knowledge that, on the end of one of those nights, was a blade with their blood on it. 'Twas the Business; that was all it was, death and death upon their enemies, death and death back. How fucking tiring.

But so it was, and so they knew it. So why did his cousins feel the need to shed a tear and hug their babies each and every time they went to it? A man could die in his sleep at any moment, and still they treated each rearing of its pitch black and rotting face like some kind of goddamn revelation?

Perhaps the nameless Armstrong boy had the right idea; raping and killing didn't much appeal to Kenneth, but at least it was done quietly.

"By the Devil's own pot-roasted arse," Kenneth grumbled, "what the hell are we waiting for? I want ta be dead by breakfast!"