The Legend of the Lake (Griffons, Adventure)
Item: 2.2.12.120.6.14 #D11
Donor: Doirion Angaráto/Lord of Pellaformen
Archivist: Grithonwen
This caltúma recording of a local creation and founding myth was made on 2.2.12.107.2.5 during an expedition to Lóniand. It is intertwined with the saga of Eireaball Geal, a possibly mythical and almost certainly composite hero in the folklore of Helliand and Athralaeg. Compare Tinnuadan stories regarding fey and otherworlds. Note that the original recording is in the local (northern) dialect of Lónarin; dubbed copies in Noldorin Quenya and Telerin must be selected using the panel to the left as you enter the projection booth.
- Xenoarchivist Grithonwen
UPDATE (2.2.13.11.3.10): In spite of the understandable curiosity it elicits, guests are requested not to interfere with the right hand panel. It is for the use of maintenance staff in testing the fire suppression system of the wing.
UPDATE (2.2.13.11.3.12): In the event you did not heed the previous warning, oxygen masks are available in the cabinet by the entrance to the hall. It is recommended that you collect one and wait for an archivist rather than attempting to shut off the argon pumps yourself.
Long ago, the gods and the fey of the seelie and unseelie courts strove with one another for dominion of the young earth. The land was torn, mountains were crushed and the very roots of the world shaken, but the seelie court had the victory. Balor's head was hewn from his neck and his Formians fled to the dark crannies of the land or were destroyed.
The gods then placed their children to sleep across the earth and the vaults of the firmament, destined to awake once the world was ready for their frail forms. They could not know the limits of their creations however, and were loath to toy with them, fearing to awake them too early, only to choke upon ash, or too late, when the Sun guttered to its end.
Thus, they turned to the traitors of their kind, so that they might be redeemed. Those seelie fey who had turned upon their kin were cast from the firmament one by one, where by their incarnate suffering, the time might be known. Fey after fey was thus sent to earth, but all returned to their lords in death, even the hardiest being consumed by fire or ice before they could complete their task.
Despairing, last of all the gods sent one who was once himself a mighty lord among the fey. Like his kin, he fell like a star from the sky, but as the fires engulfed him, the fey lord stretched forth a claw and offered it to the earth. Then, Orbsen took pity upon him and guarded him, so that only his claw was charred and he was quenched by a lake that welled up to meet his fall.
Stunned, the fey lord staggered from the pit and breathed the mortal air, and he found it sweet. He heard the morning birdsong, and he found it seemly. He saw the land, and he found it fair and green. Thus, his heart was turned from the darkness that had befallen it and he raised his voice in such a mighty song that the land quaked beneath his feet and trees bent to harken to it.
Far away, the gods heard the song echo in their halls, and they were pleased. They sent their servants to awake the children and offered pardon for the fey lord. He however humbly declined, begging to remain upon the land, for his love of the earth had become great. Macha consented, but she took the fey lord's claws and his wings, so that he could do no harm.
Badb was still unsure in her heart however, and so she planted a seed in the dreams of the great mortal hero Eireaball Geal, to come to the fey lord and test his faith.
Warily, the Griffon brought his clan far west and charged the fey lord to deliver them from the coming frost, to a place where the waters never freezes.
The fey lord scoured the mountains for three weeks, and Badb sent the vision of a troll to haunt him, a beast as foul as it was vicious, but he slew its fury with piteous words. Then three weeks after that, she sent a beautiful temptress to seduce him with pelf and place, but he denied her and sent her wailing into the night. At the close of the seventh week, the fey lord spied the object of his quest from a high crop among the howling rocks, and he led Eireaball Geal and his weary folk down into the southern forests.
Satisfied at last, Badb placed a rainbow over the mountains, its beauty ushering the fey lord back to the lake, which he would make his fair dwelling as its spirit.
Unlike most of his lesser kin, the Lake Spirit did not hide when mortals approached his haunt. Instead, he would appear before them and bid them welcome at his hearth. Many travellers were wary, for such is often the way of the unseelie, secretly indebting a mortal to their service, but he asked naught in return but honest company.
In time, word spread of the lake and many clans arrived there to see for themselves the fey land. As ever, the Lake Spirit gave them hospitality, but he also taught them the secrets of metal and of song, and at his hearth he told their cubs tales of the days before days. Others came in search of guidance, and he gave freely of the ancient lore at his command.
Some therefore, beholding his eternal youth and the depth of his wisdom, came to see the Spirit as a god himself, but to their confoundment, he would take their offerings in the trade of mortal folk alone, giving of himself wonders of wood and stone, or new songs of his own heart's joyful devising.
Whenever a clan departed however, there would often be a few who chose instead to remain, entranced by the beauty of the place or wishing to learn more of the Spirit's lore. Thus, the Loch-Daoine, or as they name themselves the Aelingwaith, found their beginning, who covet knowledge as another griff would gold. Of them, the Spirit took an apprentice in every generation, who would become styled of the fey tongue and mighty in the lore of all things.
One day, a griffoness from the west by the name of Madrbal arrived at the lake, bearing offerings of food like many before her, but also a ruby that gleamed like the blood of Dáire when she birthed the world. The Spirit was thrilled, for he loved the bounty of the earth, but when he offered his usual payments, Madrbal would not accept anything in return, no matter how fine. Unshakable, she placed the gem at the Spirit's threshold when he finally despaired of bartering and would speak no more with her. But the next morning, she found it lying beside her fire.
For three years every evening thenceforth, Madrbal would cross the lake to the Red Isle to offer it to the Spirit, and every morning she would find it in her camp. Sometimes she would lie in wait for the Spirit, but never could she catch him returning the gem. Indeed, in all that time none saw the Spirit, and though the windows of his hall were lit, the door was barred.
At last, on the first day of the fourth year, the Spirit emerged under the Sun. Crossing the water, he came to Madrbal, who fell upon her face before him.
"Why will you not leave?" He asked.
"I will not leave until my sacrifice is made." Replied Madrbal.
"If I cannot pay for your gift, then I cannot take it, for it is not mine to accept." The Spirit said.
"But you are my god!" Proclaimed Madrbal. "If I cannot give of myself in your honour, then I shall be unfulfilled and must give myself!"
Then the Spirit knelt and took her talon and raised her from the dirt. "Feel my flesh, through it runs the blood of life." Guiding her talon, the Spirit cut his palm. "See the blood, is it different to yours?"
"Mend it, lord." Pleaded Madrbal. "You should not suffer for me."
"I cannot undo that which is done." Said the Spirit.
"Can you not heal yourself, he who raised my son Mahpesr from death?" Asked Madrbal.
"I might bind and tend my paw, as I drew the arrow from your son and tended to him, but I did not do that which any of skill and noble heart could not." The Spirit answered.
Madrbal wept, falling into the Spirit's arms in exhaustion and despair.
"Here you have wasted through deprivation for three years." He said. "There is naught I can do for that, but now I know your intent, for service rendered I will accept payment freely given."
"How can a mother truly pay for the life of her son? It cannot be done, not with all the gold in the world." She replied.
"I do not ask payment for your son, his life was not mine to give but yours alone." The Spirit said.
"I do not understand, lord." Said Madrbal.
Taking a loaf from the bag he carried, the Spirit offered it to Madrbal. "Break this bread and eat of it."
She did so, and was revived by the magic that lay within it.
"To eat is to preserve life." The Spirit said. "As with food, so it is with healing and all I may ask is for my skill and the remedies I used. It is an unfair price, one even the most disgraceful of druids would not demand, but you have refused all else I can give."
Madrbal listened and was enlightened as the Spirit spoke, his words turning to the gods who dwell west of west, whom he himself venerated. Thus, he entreated that if Madrbal still wished to give the ruby to him, that it be in their name and veneration, and thus it was. Thus came the ruby Gaelachfíon into the holding of the Spirit of the Lake, that would later be set as the boss of the shield Dóchas and blessed by Macha.
Now as is told in many songs, Eireaball Geal had become the king of the north, to whom all Griffons from the vale of Sionna to the eastern seas paid fealty in those days when the world was young. Under his laws, still held dear today, there was peace and plenty across the land. The ealdorgriffs were rich and proud in their halls and even the meanest cottar had meat and bread enough to eat.
Badb however, was displeased, for without strife there is no change. Thus, she enticed unseelie spirits of the airs to chill the land. Harvests failed and starvation loomed, but Eireaball Geal was wise and the stocks he had kept in spite of his prideful ealdorgriffs saved his people, for a time.
The king called the greatest druids to his side, but their efforts availed little. Desperate, in spite of a mistrust that had grown between the king and the strange Loch-Daoine, Eireaball Geal travelled to the lake, where the Spirit met him as an old friend.
"End this storm, mighty Spirit, if goodness be in your heart, for the sake of all who live in the Tailte Sioc!" The king pleaded.
"It is not within me to rule the airs of the world." Answered the Spirit.
"The gods heed not our prayers, and our wisest cannot stand before such might. If not to you, then to who should I turn?" Asked Eireaball Geal.
The Spirit strode to Aireach, the king's guard, and drew his sword from its scabbard, presenting the pommel to the king. "Turn to your thegns, and cleanse the rust from their blades. I shall do what I may."
While Eireaball Geal left and took council, as is told in the saga of the Geamhradh Fada, the Spirit gathered his students. Using the very power of the unseelie spirits, amid the storm they forged a gleaming sword as black as jet from the bounty of the land, and the Spirit hallowed it under the heavens. Laerthil it was named, and travelling to Clagfuar, he gifted it to Eireaball Geal.
The chosen king then raised Laerthil high to see it in the light and lo! The clouds that swirled above were shattered by a west wind.
"Truly Spirit, you work a miracle!" He proclaimed in wonder.
But the Spirit shook his head. "That was but the beginning. Go forth in haste, for time is short."
And so it was. Six earldorgriffs, the king charged to remain and guard his lands, but six he called to his banner and all his thegns with them. Then Eireaball Geal marched west, but though the clouds parted before him, the frost continued to gather. Crossing Cuileantír at a pace unmatched in those trackless days and gathering two thousand spears on the road, he came upon the Slèite and essayed to ford it.
But even as the host took wing and began to cross, they were beset by the unseelie, driven to a fury by the king's defiance. Dozens were smitten from the air by their frigid onset, slain by cold alone, but the old king blew his horn Mamaidh so hard that his crown fell from his head and he charged the fey!
Then came a mighty wind that scattered his thegns, but Eireaball Geal pressed on sword in talon. Warded by the runes that ran down its gleaming blade, he fell upon the fey and with each cut, they screamed in anguish and fell back. But they were many, and Eireaball Geal was alone for all the efforts of his brave thegns.
Forward strode the Spirit, harp in paw, and with his song like the rushing of waves, a light fell upon the field. The unseelie cursed him and some tried blindly to dive upon him, but the king pressed his advantage and put them to flight.
"Now surely, the worst must pass." Eireaball Geal said wearily at day's end, and many agreed, but the Spirit of the Lake yet seemed troubled.
"Sheath not your swords, we must face the last test." He foretold.
Then the king drew Laerthil. "Very well, but if that were not our ultimate foe, then all of brave heart must now fight."
"A foe." The Spirit said, and no more as he departed.
Thus as is told in Bàs an Eireaball Geal, the king gathered to him a mighty host as the first summer in long years warmed the land, and it was well that he did so, for out of the west came a numberless horde. They were led by Queen Albe Gilderung, and by their strange customs, they brought their families with them to war, who would chant and shout from their wagons behind the warrior maidens.
Marching westward in haste, Eireaball Geal met the Ponies at the fords of Glen, but he was worsted and the lesser part of his host driven in rout.
He retreated to the mouths of the Sionna, where he was joined by the loyal Domnall of Morcair at the head of the muster of the earldorgriffs. There for a time, the invaders were halted at the northern fords and there were three great battles at the fords, and his warriors returned from Ervie with splintered shields and shattered spears. Then, Eireaball Geal was besieged upon the cliffs of Dinkau and an assault upon the stockade was made in which fell Earc of Gealachèirich, but it was turned back and the siege drew on for three seasons ere the king sallied forth and with great slaughter of the invader, escaped to Plover with his force as Storm Season closed in.
While the west burned, it is said that the Lake Spirit looked to his sorceries and travelled the eastern mountains, as was often his wont to do. This time however, he turned from the empty vales and their cold streams, braving instead the high clefts. But the snows fell early that year, and both he and his apprentice Maenor were trapped upon the heights. There they abided, and though even monsters then hid in their dens, they did so from the greater peril of the frost.
Thus, no reply came to Eireaball Geal when he sent for the Spirit in the hope of using his sorcery to halt the invader, who he feared intended to press their assault upon Reothadh-Síorraidh even in the dawnless days. This would not come to pass however, for by the customs of the foreigners, they set camp as the Sun ceased to cross the horizon and would move no more until the birth of their foals.
Learning of this through his agents, but aware of the perils of an assault in the bleak seasons, Eireaball Geal thus wintered in Reothadh-Síorraidh and awaited reinforcement from the southern marches.
Opening the campaign early, the king marched west once more, and ambushed the invader in the forests of Togsuas. There, there was a great conflagration and he drove the Ponies in rout for two days and nights back to Plover, and ever after the wood was known for the fires of that battle.
Then he essayed to assault the town, but lacking in the tools of siege the king met with failure and was obliged to withdraw in the bitter weather to Reothadh-Síorraidh, and made ready its defences.
In Fire Season, the invader arrived. Reothadh-Síorraidh was put to siege, and the city cut off, for the northern water was patrolled by the winged among their number with the favour of Orbsen. These made essays in raiding the docks, but were repelled. Then scaling ramps and rams were brought up, and by force of numbers the foe gained the walls.
But Eireaball Geal with the image of Macha upon his shield rallied his thegns and sallied forth and by Her grace, the king broke the leagure of the city and burned the invaders' siege train. Thus even as he had been, now Albe Gilderung was forced into retreat to the line of the Tuiluaine.
Eireaball Geal followed, and there was strife at the pine-strewn ford of the King's Road where he caught the queen in the crossing. There, his thegns met the fury of their Pegasus counterparts above the waters, which ran red beneath the affray, but the valour of the warriors of Clagfuar proved the hotter, and they gained the skies from the invader.
Then crossings were made, and harried upon her flank, the nerve of the invader broke as the call of Mamaidh was heard. Following their queen, they fled for the hills in droves, and her second daughter Forlorenes Hyhtgifu was left upon the field, hewn down by a thegn of the Earldorgriff Domnall whose name is now lost.
Now, the Spirit returned from the mountains to hear of these things, and set his students to work, who devised engines that might hurl darts two ells long with more might than the strongest bow. But he himself retreated to his own forge with Maenor to a task of which neither would speak beyond their workshop.
When all was made ready, he rallied many of the Loch-Daoine and travelled west bearing a heavy pack from which he would not be parted. But coming to the land of Gealachèirich, the Spirit of the Lake found the folk apparently at peace and the thegns cutting only wood and meat. Thus he spoke with the Earldorgriff Badshah, a fat old cob who dwelt in a long, dingy hall.
"Good lord, why do you remain here? Have you not heard the king's command?" Asked the Spirit.
"I have, but I am too old to go abroad." He answered. "My wings are sore and my eyes dull. My son has gone in my stead."
"And what of your fyrd? Your thegns wield axes and your ceorles are yet lambing!" Retorted the Spirit.
"None would leave my side, and I would not court famine." Said the earldorgriff.
"You instead court the sacking of your halls." Said the Spirit.
"That may be, but the choice of evils is the lot of a lord." Answered Badshah.
"Then come forth from your hall, for your eyes may be clouded by more than age." Suggested the Spirit.
Thus, Badshah rose and followed the Spirit from the hall. There, he breathed the clean air and even as it had upon the land, a spring seemed to fall upon the old cob. He stood straight and looked to the west, and he saw afar with clear eyes the reek of the siege, and beyond the Fire-Forest.
"Let the fire in your belly be relit lord, for now is not the time for timidity. Your son is in peril and the waters of your folk and mine shall be next." The Lake Spirit said, unknowing of the fate of Earc.
"I know not what sorcery you work Spirit, but sight bestows belief. I shall march, if these old bones are willing." Badshah said.
Then the warriors of Gealachèirich were mustered and a thousand spears flew to the succour of the king.
Even as they marched, Eireaball Geal fell upon a camp of the invader, and the exhausted foe put up but a little struggle. There in the train, he found great riches and the share to even the meekest ceorle was worth more than a year's service in arms. This quieted the complaints some had begun to whisper, for the king's coffers had been running dry, but soon the enemy was upon the host of Tailte Sioc again in great numbers.
Thus, the attackers became the besieged within the very stockade of their foes, but when the host of Reothadh-Síorraidh arrived in arms upon the invaders' rear, wreaking much havoc in among the wagons of their families, Eireaball Geal sallied. There was then a great battle upon Comharraidh Hill for two days and a night and it is said that by the blessing of Macha, twenty-three score and ten thegns of the invaders were slain by the sword Laerthil.
At the feet of Comharraidh however, Laird, lord of Reothadh-Síorraidh, was slain by Albe Gilderung. Then the strength of his ceorles grew faint, and many fled even as his thegns bore his body from the field in honour. Then the queen of the invaders fell upon the host of Tailte Sioc at the head of her thegns, for she now had a bitter feud with Eireaball Geal and she called for his challenge. But she could not find his standard, for the king was already in such bitter contest with her vassals that its bearer had fallen and his mail was so irrecoverably soiled that ever after it shone red.
Nonetheless, in spite of the presence and deeds of heroes, the Battle of Comharraidh Hill was one decided by thegns and ceorles, and by their numbers and kenning of the land, the invader seemed soon to have the victory as a second night fell.
Then, the bonfire of the camp upon the hill flared to such a brilliance that the sparks scorched the clouds and seeing it afar, the host of Gealachèirich made haste to the field. When that ambrose Spirit arrived on that gloomy eve, he shone with the light of the gods, and the spears of Gealachèirich glittered like stars.
On came Badshah, and many were amazed at the swiftness of one so old, whose very brother had taught the way of the sword to the old king as a cub. Diving upon the foe with his thegns about him, he hewed down their high druid even as she stood transfixed, and her apprentice was thrown from her hooves by a black feathered bolt.
The shock was total, and even as the heart had fallen from the folk of Reothadh-Síorraidh, now the westerners wavered. They needed their queen, but Albe Gilderung was consumed with such fury that she did not perceive the growing danger even as more darts fell upon her host, slaying twos and threes and fours at a single stroke, with such force they were cast.
The Ponies were hard pressed from the south by the king and from the east by the host of Badshah, and the Spirit of the Lake wove such a terrible song that none dared to assail him as he climbed the hill through the very thick of the fighting. Indeed, many of the less hearty from both sides took flight and quitted the field when the Spirit approached, or fell upon their faces and wept, thinking their doom upon them. For he seemed to them a terrible troll of white hot flame.
Believing that some great sorcery of the foe was set to cleave his army in twain, the king and his weary household turned to face it with forlorn valour. But now wresting his eyes from the slaughter for the first time in days, he perceived the state of the field and raised his black sword high as he sang the praises of the gods even as the host of the enemy at first slowly and then with the gathering speed of an avalanche fled from that stained hill.
Thus, the meeting of the King Eireaball Geal the Spirit of the Lake under stars was for a second time glad, as of old friends long parted.
"Surely now, with a victory so complete, we may chase these heathens from our land." Said the king, leaning upon his sword as he surveyed the field.
"Utter defeat awaits if you pursue this foe." Cautioned the Spirit. "Rest and be ready, for the twelfth shall pay for all."
"Valour exhausted may be no valour at all, but it sits ill with me to leave a foe unharried while I yet stand." Said the king. "But if that must be to end this war."
"It is yours to make an end of this war." The Spirit replied, and said no more that night.
Therefore, the host of Tailte Sioc rested in mourning upon the hill and the dead were placed upon the great pyre, their many souls opening the heavens wide so that no rain fell across the world for a month thereafter.
When a week had passed, the king deemed his armament fit enough to press the campaign. Westward he marched and met no opposition even so far as the western sea. There, the gates of halls upon high bluffs were thrown open to greet him, and there was no sack. Then he turned south toward the crossings of the Rime, but he was met upon the fields of Wohngeard by Queen Albe Gilderung with all the strength of arms of the west at her back.
The queen called for parley, and though it came as a surprise to many, for never before in the war had the invaders made such a gesture, warily Eireaball Geal flew to meet her above the field in such a splendid array of pennants as had never yet been seen upon the young Earth.
There they spoke for some time, and there was even talk of peace, but the blood of Princess Forlorenes Hyhtgifu lay between them. Though by the laws of Tailte Sioc, a wergild could be paid and Eireaball Geal offered such, the laws of the invader were different. The wergild must be paid, said their queen, by Domnall's thegn alone. This could not be, for all the worldly possessions of a thegn, or even all his sons as well, could not hope to match such a sum of gold. Nor could the king demand his earldorgriff to release his thegn to their justice, and Domnall himself refused to command his loyal servant to the scaffold, as there was no law of trial by arms among their kind and no doubt of the thegn's part.
Thus, the parley regretfully broke, for at their meeting king and queen alike had shared a respect.
And so the war came to its last battle, in which Badshah the Old fell, that shaped its kind in latter days. The armies advanced in order, and there was much skirmishing of sling and bolt on land and in the sky above as rangers of renown stalked one another between the clouds. Long time veterans and rivals marked one another by name, challenges made and accepted. And the valour of sword and spear and mace, of iron and steel and blood was tested in the shield walls of that most honourable of all battles, in which it is said none was smitten upon the ground, and no quarter to ransom was refused. Druids sang their prayers and Macha strove with her husband Wealdafrea for command of the land, which cracked and flowed and burnt like copper fresh out of the crucible.
As he had since the parley, the Spirit remained at the side of Eireaball Geal as he fought, but ever it seemed his gaze was elsewhere, and he did not draw the sword girt at his hip. None were sure what to make of this, but the ferocity of the king and his thegns was such that none raised a weapon against the fey lord.
Then like a thunderclap, Albe Gilderung fell upon them, and their guards were alike enmeshed and embattled. But even as the mace Eorburg fell with the weight of its name and Laerthil rose to meet it, the jet blade glowed with a light it had only once before.
Then the Spirit of the Lake sprang forward and drawing his sword in one stroke he struck both mace and blade apart.
"Hold!" He cried into a growing east wind. "Hold! Free folk of west and east, hold! Cast aside your grievances! The unseelie enemy of the world is upon us all!"
Heads turned and strokes faltered as the wind became a howling storm of snow and hail as large as a balled talon that hammered upon the ground, sending up a reek of steam. Badb's scheme had gone astray, and the spirits of the airs had divested themselves of her command. In vast numbers they fell upon the field, drawn as crows to carrion.
Many dropped their arms, cast aside shield and helm and fled before the onset with all the speed that was in them, and it was not enough. More rallied to their chiefs and in scattered pockets resisted the unseelie, all vain as though blades of iron might pierce the hide of the fey, only magic may wound a being of magic.
As ceorle and thegn and lord alike were bitten by the frost and died frozen in their defiance, falling back around their monarchs, the Lake Spirit opened his pack and drew from it five swords and six maces of cold steel that ran like water and gleamed like Laerthil, together with whom are called the Fiaclan á Tuath, the Teeth of the North.
To Domnall of Morcair, near to the king by fate and loyalty, he gave Caethuil. To Niallghas of Ford Ghaothach he gave Iavasthiel. To Brian, a thegn of Geatacaillte, was gifted Firihith. Echuir went to Conn of Ciúbtír and Rhîwamtir the Lake Spirit gave to his own apprentice Maenor, whose grandfather now lay dead. Of the maces, Rista was given to Pípe Hwistlaþ of the Erlyft, Dosta to Beadu Healsgebedda of Bæl, Glannaith to Hnescneshelm of Brim, Daro to Lee Behïewþ of Eorðgræf, Coru to Fæst Lættewestre of Wæterhelm and last and mightiest, black Galu was presented to Queen Albe Gilderung.
But the queen was uncertain. "Who am I, to accept arms from one I call enemy?"
Now Eireaball Geal was angered at the implication upon his friend, and his talon tightened around the hilt of Laerthil.
But the Spirit stepped between them. "Who among your people have I ever slain, noble queen, or even drawn sword against? Be not so hasty to blame the miller for the use to which the baker puts his flour, for it is not mine to command the King of Tailte Sioc in the use of the black blade I bestowed upon him in the defence of his people against the enemies of all life." Then he raised his sword and swept it at the wrath that surrounded them. "Behold! All you noble folk! Those who would have an end of all life! I ask you not to call foes friends, but to set aside feuds of blood and cherished wealth that would otherwise be made meaningless, for divided we must all crumble to the same utter defeat, as has been before. But together and with lordly might, we may endure any who would take our home." Then he turned back to the queen of the westerlings and again offered the mace. "Let Eorburg the heirloom of your house be the hammer of your worldly foes, and Galu of those beyond."
Then hesitatingly, Albe Gilderung placed Eorburg upon its loop and took up Galu, and she stood tail to tail with Eireaball Geal and they defied the storm as it closed upon them with such howls and screams that it seemed the Formian hosts of old were unleashed.
But the Fiaclan á Tuath gleamed with an unearthly light. Again and again they rose and fell as they smote the unseelie as they swarmed in endless numbers, and lightning crackled in Albe Gilderung's defiance. The Spirit sang and others took up the grim tune and it filled their hearts with a warmth of fire as they fought and they froze and they resisted that ceaseless tide beside the wandering river.
But rather than retreating from the pain of blows, as they had under Badb's will, the unseelie surged on, though a hill of their slain gathered around the host of the north and turned to snow beneath their feet. Wounds they struck, deep and bitter, and there fell Conn and Pípe Hwistlaþ, Beadu Healsgebedda and Niallghas, and doughty Hnescneshelm was pierced by ice and many thegns besides. But the gods were moved, and by Aodh-Nefrea's grace their spirits rose, pale limbs grasped holy arms and they fought on for the sake of their people.
This contest went on for hours and days, and it seemed fit to last into eternity as the unseelie renewed themselves from the very hatred of their foes for them. But even as the unseelie glutted themselves, a bond was formed between northern folk, so that to this day when any should come from beyond to take their birthright from them, all should cast aside their feuds and stand together in the spirit of that fateful strife.
But for all the mortal valour of the north, Albe Gilderung was slain, and Eireaball Geal wounded to the death as her great mortal form exploded in its throes, which took all from their feet and scattered for a moment the unseelie.
Then Badb was wrathful at the killing of her champion and she cursed the unseelie. Ever after would they be suited only to steal their sustenance and to lurk as withering husks. Thus, their strength was broken and in cravens they fled like rabbits, and were hunted and slaughtered as such by the northrons, who laughed and sang with delight at their victory.
But as the spirit of Albe Gilderung passed her crown and heirlooms to her daughter Láf Timbriend and departed as all mortals must, and the host of slain beside her, the Spirit of the Lake who stood light as a shadow upon the snow came to where Eireaball Geal lay and helped him to sit upright.
"So the last did pay for all, but I do not think I shall see the profit." The king said wearily, clasping the Spirit's paw. "But that is the price and it is one I would pay a thousand times for my people. I despair only that I have no son."
The Spirit then bade Maenor aid him and together they bore the king away to the lake with Domnall at their side. There he entrusted the care of the realm to his most loyal vassal and the enaction of his final command that the lands west of Slèite be left to the westerlings. Then he was taken to the island of the Spirit and from that misty place, Eireaball Geal never returned.
Nor was the Spirit seen for some time, but when he did emerge, he carried Laerthil before him and with loyal Domnall as his witness, he cast the black sword into the deep pool at the foot of Lanthir Mîross where the Lenlûduin flows over the rim of the lake crater with the words:
"Here let the blade of Eireaball Geal lie, until the land should have need of its king once more. And woe unto the unworthy heir who disturbs its rest, for the spirit of the king lies within, and he shall know his own."
But as Domnall departed for Clagfuar and all that awaited him there, many of the Loch-Daoine gathered to the Spirit. They asked if there was now no king of the land, and the Spirit said this was the case and returned to his isle.
Many then wondered who was to be their lord, for though in law the lake fell within the reign of Badshah of Gealachèirich, they had for many years named the king their sole liege. Their justices had been left to their own devices and tax collectors of neither the king nor his earldorgriff came to the lake on their errands, save only for council. But now there was no lord in the halls of Árd Airgid, for Earc son of Badshah lay dead and his eldest son also.
Now, Maenor was the second son of Earc and the last of his house, but it seemed improper to many, not least to Maenor himself, that he should claim himself lord of the lake over his tutor. Thus, it came into their minds that as they held the Spirit their guide, he should also be their new lord.
Therefore when he next embarked from his isle, the Spirit was taken. Then with all due respect and process, he was presented with a circlet of silver forged by Maenor's own talon and a cloak of mink and placed upon a high chair, and it is said that in that hour the fey Spirit of the Lake first sat upon his throne, he bore such an expression of surprise as has never been seen before or since in all the history of the world.
Thus, as Maenor travelled north to the halls of his birth and his reign and that of his line which endures in direct lineage to this day, the Spirit began his endless rule as the Prince of the Lake. Beneath his wing, the folk of that place have grown wise in the secret lore of the world, as have the chiefs of Gealachèirich whom he now tutors.
Wisest of all beings in lore, slow to the sword but staunchest and most terrible of all in defence, the greatest of voices. The Prince of the Lake alone now recalls the voice of that most just of all kings Eireaball Geal and knows his mind, so that even though his kingdom lies broken and the westerling clans are scattered, while Laerthil rests beneath Lanthir Mîross, the will of the king shall not be silent.
Author's Note
My word, that turned out longer than I had expected it would. I hope you enjoyed this mythical account of events in the ancient far north of Griffonia. Provided below is a map that will provide some further context for the story.
Thanks to Eltirion for beta reading.
More shorts may be added to this anthology as and when suitable ideas strike.
What's on Your Plate (Comedy, Slice of Life, Griffons)
Item: 2.2.12.102.4.13 #A42
Donor: Ingolmo Sovotambe/Loremistress of the School of Applied and Theoretical Gastronomy
Archivist: Grithonwen
This piece, dating back one hundred and seven years at the time of entry, is an extract transcribed and translated from a culinary magazine native to the country of Rochbendor known as 'Diner's Delight'. It was recovered by the donor during the etlocoitëgûl expedition launched on 2.2.12.100.2.68 due to the rare insight it provides into foreign culinary methods in a position of racial intersection.
- Xenoarchivist Grithonwen
For this moon's Griffon's Eye View, I travelled to Aquila. Now, many of you might be saying "Hold on a minute Salt Pinch, you've done wine reviews two moons running now; you literally just got back from that disastrous trip to Scarlet Island!" You would be right, as would my editor, but let me reassure you all with the remarkable fact that not a drop of wine was involved in this excursion.
Now, before our beloved writer-inner Runny Rennet barrages our post box with a letter, yes, there was (eventually) some cheese, Pithiviers to be exact. Cheese without wine, almost heresy in itself without the venue in mind, but mine is not to reason why, mine is but to report on the train wreck.
I swear, it's like I'm typing into a wind tunnel, sometimes.
I was in fact given a surprising invitation to visit the old Domain Royale, now the seat of the Assemblée Nationale, by my long time friend Marion Paul, who was recently elevated to the office of the Attaché de Presse (a far more pleasant counterpart to our own most 'delightful' Press Secretary) and could think of nopony better to turn the world's eye upon their brand new parliamentary restaurant. I will admit, the very prospect had me salivating!
Mademoiselle Marion meets me at the huge main doors of the grand building in the traditional Aquileian way, quite the pleasure from such a stunning mare, and leads me inside. There are the usual obnoxious security checks we've all been suffering through for the past few months of course, but with the war on back home, I'm forced to admit that a friendly government is smart to be careful.
The inside of the Domain Royale is stunning, easily a match for the palace in Canterlot. Dark blue and white wallpaper and plush maroon carpets are the order of the day, making me feel almost like I'm drowning in the Aquileian flag, though the effect is broken up by the art on display. Historical scenes, landscapes, even portraits of old kings hung on the walls. Emphasis on the 'old', I don't think there was a single Discret among the bunch.
If you think of an Aquileian, you'll probably immediately add wine, baguettes and poncy artists wearing berets, but if you dig a bit deeper, you'll find the tapestries. To the Aquileians, painting is rather foreign and exotic, they have traditionally woven their art and the experience shows.
I ask Marion about some of them as we walk, passing by smartly dressed députés and civil servants by the dozen.
"Oh, these?" She replies, sweeping a hoof toward a depiction of the sack of Vinovia almost disdainfully. "The little pickings from the king's collection. The best went to the museums of course, the ones we've found anyway, but we needed something to brighten the place up."
As we continue, the black coated mare easily leading me through this maze of a building, expanded by just about every one of Aquileia's kings, I can't help but wonder if stunning art like this is considered the 'little pickings', then how much the real masterworks were worth. Moreover, how wonderful must the dining be?
We arrive bang on time for lunch, and what greets me is far from what I imagined.
The colour scheme in this part of the building is thankfully a little less oppressive, mostly cream walls and light blue carpets with yellow fleur-de-lis patterning, but the furnishings are the first clue I get that I might have been about to get something other than I bargained for.
The room is already filling with surprisingly reluctant looking bureaucrats and politicians as we find a table and clamber onto the typically Griffon benches, each incongruously made from bakelite and obviously cheap, tarnished metal in juxtaposition to the patrons and richly panelled walls.
I had intended to begin the interview at this point with a question about the menu, and I technically stuck to my guns; "Where are the menus?" I look around, but all the nearby tables are just as bare as ours down to the eye-watering chessboard sheets.
Marion's ears perk with amusement and her speech quickens into the classic Aquileian flurry. "That's what most of the guests ask."
I ask if there's a buffet we're supposed to head to.
"No," she replies, "we wait here."
I wonder if that means the chef intends to guess our preferences, it wouldn't be entirely beyond the pail for the more 'artistic' Aquileian establishments, but a feeling of doubt is poking into me. It's either that or one of the screws holding the hard bench together anyway.
I'm proven wrong when the server arrives, the heavy-set Griffon hen practically lobbing two plates onto the table. Before I can even register the contents, let alone thank her, she's gone.
"Only the best service for the députés of the Aquileian Republic." Marion comments. I'm not sure if she's being serious (there's no denying that was quite a respectable throw), sarcastic or pulling my leg.
Looking at the steaming heap of purée de pommes de terre, avoine et pain grillé on a plate that looks right at home as part of the 'dragged in from the street' aesthetic, I wonder if this whole thing is a prank until two small bottles of milk, followed by a bottle of ketchup, almost add injury to insult by making the sort of entrance usually associated with Changeling bombs.
Apparently reading my expression, not to mention the embarrassing flinch, Marion suggests that I look around some more, whereupon I realise that this sort of scene is playing out across the noisy dining hall. I'm sure I even see Présidant Gaudreau in the chaos, animatedly talking with an aide.
"This is how the députés of the Aquileian Republic eat. What do you think?" Asks Marion, taking in scene of chaos with a foreleg.
I can't muster the words to respond for a while, there are too many competing comments, but my old friend is patient. "Cheap." I eventually manage.
She beams. "Exactly!"
I ask if it isn't just a little dangerous as a set of low flying cutlery comes within a hair's breadth of lodging itself in the back of the unfazed Présidant's head.
"We hired a troupe of acrobats. They were the cheapest going." Marion casually explains as I duck to avoid our own cutlery. "It does liven the place up, don't you think?"
I reply that that's one way to put it as I climb back onto my bench.
"It's all part of the genius. We could have had something expensive, champagne every night and all the best chefs and cooks, but aren't there better ways to spend the taxpayer's idole? This way, thousands of idoles every year can go into education. Cooking classes to be exact, it seemed the most fitting to the députés." She says with a flick of her ears.
My next question of course falls upon why they should go to the bother of having a restaurant at all, if this is the alternative.
"Députés have to eat somewhere." She says. "If there was nowhere in the building, they would have to go out into the city, or bring packed lunches from home."
Images of rows of powerful politicians eating out of lunchboxes like schoolchildren are brought to mind.
"That would eat up their time" Marion's expression tells me the pun is absolutely intended, "and therefore slow down the Assemblée. Not to mention the opportunities for exploitation! Wine and good food in the claws of industrialists can be excellent lubricants for the will of the powerful, we learnt that from the royalists. No no no, we cannot have that anymore! Since we would need to provide a food allowance anyway, the chief député of the Partie des Aquileian Travailleurs," the Aquileian communist party for those unaware, "Grand Cru, suggested this. The same price as the allowances, but on-site and benefitting humble civil servants like myself as well. The Assemblée exists to serve the people, so we eat like the people. A good look, no?"
As my previous spreads will tell you, I'm no political reporter, so I stick to what I know and ask about the possibility of hosting ambassadors and the like.
She waves a hoof casually. "There are plenty of better places to host such esteemed guests than an office building!"
Attempting to get back on track, I ask how the meals are selected.
"As I said, we eat like the people." Marion answers. "A quick survey of a few thousand lower and middle class households across the country and voilá! Simple, filling meals that aren't really all that bad."
I comment that from experience, it must be complicated for the staff to prepare for both the dominant races in Aquileia at once.
"You don't have this over in Equestria of course, but here food manufacturers are required to provide dietary compatibility information on their packaging." Marion explains. "Go to any corner shop and you can see at a glance what you can and can't eat. Fusion cuisine is notoriously difficult, as I'm sure you're aware Salt, but I never realised before just how much of the basics both Griffons and Ponies can eat. Keep the meat content low and remove the hay and you've eliminated nine tenths of the problems for simple meals like this. So really it's no bother." Then she laughs. "Actually, it gives us all an extra reason to eat healthily at home, since that takes care of the nutrition deficit!"
Finally, I ask Marion what she thinks of it all.
"It keeps the députés working." She says with a sly smile.
As you can probably tell by the length of my usually brief interview segment, the meal was not much to write home about. The cooking was adequate if rustic, but the ingredients were deathly dull and with the options of 'take it' or 'leave it', I really can't condone it with a clear conscience. Apparently the chef de cuisine chooses the dish of the day the night before and has been known to repeat the same meal three days running. The food itself, best described in plain Equestrian as 'smash on toast with some oats mixed in', was presented as a single mass that had clearly been extruded onto the plate without even a moment's forethought. I suppose I ought to be thankful I detected no phlegm on it. There is nothing to be said of the origins of the ingredients as I don't know them and even if I did, I doubt it would matter much. As for the drinks, the options are milk from local farms or if you ask very nicely, tap water. While I did not feel much in danger of my life by the time the waiters came to clear our tables, the service was abysmal and I shudder to think of the bill in broken crockery, not to mention life and limb, should they make a single mistake.
Wrapping up this moon's surprisingly political article, I'm obliged to present a restaurant review summary, but I must admit that I'm a little at a loss how to go at it. On the one side, the food was almost as awful as the service, but on the other, that was the intent. In fact given the reactions of some of the accosted députés, it might even be something of an acquired taste. That earns artistic points at least, and the price, being as close to free as you can possibly get without it actually being free, is nothing to sniff at. Take from that what you will, I suppose. In the meantime, stay safe and I urge our Griffon readership to keep sending in their ration-appropriate dish recommendations. I know you have been feeling the wartime squeeze more than most of us and some of them have been truly splendid.
Total:
You get what you pay for.
Meal:
Acceptably prepared yet bland enough to drive a refined diner to tears.
Drinks:
Palatable, if you like the selection of two.
Wine: N/A
I can't review what doesn't exist.
Dining Experience:
I prefer to watch a circus from the ringside.
Price:
One cannot argue with 'free'.
Author's Note
Credit to Anna_Wing for the name concepts of the House of Learning and the School of Applied and Theoretical Gastronomy, interpretations are mine.
Since the time of writing, Marion Paul has been renamed in the mod to Affaire d'Etat and given a different political advisor role. Rather than lose a rather nice piece of alliteration and have to rework the whys of this story, it's probably safe to say the two characters are now different people.
Thanks to Eltirion for beta reading.
