“Phah!” he said to the world in general, “They spoiled it with all their gift giving, and “oh don’t go Grandfathering”, and their goings on have made a mess of what should have been a meaningful and dignified end.
The great ship of the Gael sailed swift through the tightening grip of star light. The Tuatha de Dana all slept. Then ship master Bailey alone was awakened, he sensed the fearful threat. The great tuath ship rushed above the clouds, toward the shores of the new country, Tir na Nua.
It is part of my nature or nurture that I am a sucker for a lost city story. I believe that man has achieved heights that current thought would say is impossible. Anyway, it seems there are all sorts of ancient, gold laden, cave cities doting the Southwest and in particular Death Valley.
It is a healthy and somewhat happy population of Celtoseabrookians filling out the loose garment of the earlier golden days. There is much hope for progress, eagerness for gain and no fear of hard work to reach it. Trade has re-established with the Celts so that the Oceanic Celtic world is like the big city to the Losterlies village farm.
There are many peoples, lands, and sites to see, but in the middle of it all is a blue pool on an ice topped purple mountain above a green isle in the misty inner sea. It is the quiet center of the whole world, a place of peace and solitude.
Are we not the true sons of Captain Bailey and his sky sailors? We have lost the stars for now, but wide we range upon the Seas even, it is said, beyond the spine of the world. Though none have returned from the far side of the world, one day they will.
It may be of interest and is ironic to think, that the mother they honor, Scota, is in truth that same creature, the Morrigan of war, that they abhor.
This is why we kill our enemies. This is why we do not sell our brothers and sisters to our neighbors. This is why we do not take slaves or buy slaves or trade with any who do. For one man to own another is abhorant to us. We live apart and do not mix our blood with others. We remember the years of our enslavement and it will never happen again.
Ours is a cold hard world of red rock and ice. But better to rule in Hell… much worse to serve there. So we thank the gods of ice and fire that we are not the ice folk. They are our subjects, our prey.
We in Gael still war, though the fields don’t provide so well as they did, though the great waves of Gobli Hordes have come and gone leaving drifts of metal and bone, still Dalriada crys for blood and drinks ours, red and hot, when ever it is offered.